The Bluestocking’s Bargain (The Ladies’ Essential Guide to the Art of Seduction #5)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I t was clear to Arthur Beckham that Fortune smiled upon him and his quest. He was not a man to ignore such favor. Indeed, he was inclined to act upon it, with enthusiasm. A run of luck never lasted so opportunity must be seized.

Not only was Bettencourt in town, but he had been leaving White’s at the very moment Arthur arrived there. The two had re-entered the club and retired to a private room at Arthur’s request, where he confided his need to speak with the sister of his companion’s wife.

Of course, Bettencourt wished to know why, and the story had tumbled out inelegantly, halfway making Arthur think he shared some common traits with the earl.

Bettencourt, for his part, had been highly amused by Arthur’s predicament. His laughter had made other members of the club turn to peek into the room.

“Ah, you could do worse,” Bettencourt said finally, finishing his brandy and rising to his feet with purpose. “Come along and see if you can persuade Catherine to take your side. She knows her sisters far better than I.”

Thus possessed of an ally, Arthur left the club with Bettencourt, daring to hope for success. Lo and behold, the lady herself was visiting her sister. He could not deny a sense that the stars aligned in favor of his scheme, though the assessment in Miss Carruthers’ steady gaze could have destroyed the confidence of a man less convinced of his own inevitable success.

Good to his word, Bettencourt declared that his wife looked tired, and asked Arthur to escort Miss Carruthers home. The baroness might have protested the impropriety of this, but a hot glance from her husband silenced whatever she might have said. Miss Carruthers herself did not object, another encouraging sign, and Arthur shortly found himself opposite the lady he sought, in his own carriage.

Truth be told, he was surprised she had been amenable to the plan of him escorting her home. Was she unaware that she should have a chaperone? He could not imagine that she did not know, and wondered at her choice.

Perhaps she underestimated her own appeal.

There might be a great deal he did not know about Miss Patience Carruthers, which was not the most reassuring realization he might have had in that moment.

Arthur cleared his throat, uncertain where to begin. “Your sister looks well,” he said.

The lady opposite him spoke crisply. “I gather you would speak to me upon a private matter, and not about my sister’s good health,” she said. “I recommend you commence, Mr. Beckham. Carruthers House is not that close but at this time of day, a carriage may make rapid progress.”

Indeed, they had already left Portman Square behind and were travelling quickly along Oxford Street, in the opposite direction than he had journeyed just moments before. Carruthers House, he had already ascertained, was in Golden Square, not quite as far as Carruthers & Carruthers on Piccadilly, but not in Scotland either.

“I find myself, Miss Carruthers, in a predicament, one that you may be able to resolve.”

Her brows rose. “Me? I thought you came to speak to me about the book.”

The book? It took him a moment to realize which book she meant, then he was struck by how very long ago their last conversation seemed to have been. “What would I say to you about the book?”

She lifted one shoulder. “You might have comments about its accuracy, or disagree with some of its recommendations and referrals.” She was watching him with those silvery eyes, her gaze so direct that he sensed little could be hidden from her.

“And what would I know of such descriptions?”

This time, she cleared her throat, a delicate sound. “You are an eligible young gentleman, Mr. Beckham, and one with somewhat of a reputation as a man who enjoys life’s pleasures.”

Arthur grinned. “You suspect I have visited these ladies.”

“Such a revelation would not astonish me.” She looked suitably prim and Arthur wanted nothing more than to tempt her smile.

“Well, it should, Miss Carruthers. I have never paid for the company of a lady before, much less for her affections.”

She tilted her head to study him. “Then you are an innocent in such matters? I confess myself surprised, sir.”

Arthur laughed heartily at that and her gaze flicked away from him. “Hardly that.” Was she blushing? He could not quite tell in the dimmer light inside the carriage, which was a shame.

She eyed him while striving to do otherwise, her curiosity impossible to ignore.

“Let me make myself clear then. Such favors have been granted to me without the exchange of financial compensation, Miss Carruthers.”

“Truly? I had no notion that society was so…familiar.”

“It can be familiar indeed, I assure you. It seems vulgar to me, as well as unnecessary, to visit a whore when a widow will so often be just as willing a partner. Such a union can offer other advantages as well.”

She nodded, though she seemingly could not meet his gaze. “Perhaps a widow’s companionship might be less likely to result in an infection or other discomfort.”

Arthur was astounded by this comment and did not know what to say. Indeed, this conversation was most uncommon, and he had not even commenced upon the topic he wished to speak about.

She smiled, just a little, reminding him of one of his cats. “I have read medical volumes, Mr. Beckham. It is clearly indicated that men who hire the favors of certain ladies are apt to experience subsequent illness, particularly in the example of syphilis. I, myself, would wish to avoid any circumstance that might add that ailment to my experiences for it is a most cruel progression of symptoms.” She blinked once. “Indeed, you raise a salient point, for if I ever am to wed, I must find a way to ascertain that my intended will not bring me unwelcome gifts.”

Arthur blinked.

“I can assure you, Miss Carruthers, that I share your view,” he said finally, thinking she might wish some reassurance on that subject before their conversation was completed. “Though that is not the only reason to avoid the favors of courtesans and Cyprians.”

“You do not like that it is a trade for them?”

“No,” Arthur admitted. “I do not. First of all, the company of such females can be an expensive indulgence.”

She almost smiled. “Are you frugal or poor, Mr. Beckham?”

“Prudent, most assuredly,” he said with a smile. “In addition, I think that intimacy should be pursued when there is fondness or affection, even a measure of admiration between the parties. I find that more amenable than a transaction, not unlike the purchase of a cabbage.”

She bit back a smile at that. “A cabbage, sir?”

“A book, then. Any commodity bought and sold without much emotional consideration.”

“A book, I assure you, sir, should be a carefully considered acquisition.”

He bowed his head, ceding to the correction. “A cabbage, then.”

She studied him, seeming to see far more than he might like to reveal. Those grey eyes seemed to be filled with shifting lights, perhaps hiding a trove of secrets of her own. He was tempted in that moment to offer an exchange of secrets with her. He would take a wager as to who might have more. “Do you intend to recommend the merit of love, sir?”

“I think it a fine thing, to be sure, and a wondrous experience. It is not a firm basis for any decision, however, for it is a fleeting pleasure.”

“Ah. I appreciate your endorsement and shall recall it in future instances when such a recommendation might be appropriate. Is this truly what you wished to discuss?”

“No.” Arthur frowned, aware that he had wasted a goodly measure of time. There was something dashedly easy about discoursing with Miss Carruthers. “Are you acquainted, by chance, with Miss Felicia Grosvenor?”

The warmth faded from his companion’s eyes and she sat a little straighter in apparent disapproval. “I would not say that we are acquainted, but I know who she is.”

“And do you know much of her?”

“I know all I need to know.” Miss Carruthers’ eyes flashed in a most alluring way.

What qualities would result in the loss of Miss Carruthers’ good view? Arthur wanted very much to know. “Do tell,” he invited, not truly surprised that she embarked immediately upon reciting a list.

“She reads three-volume novels, by and large, and a great many of them, though sadly, she does not prefer the better ones. She is inclined to favor the melodramatic and even, I must say, the silly stories over those with more skillful character development and plotting.”

“One cannot account for taste,” Arthur said, impressed by her ferocity.

“And worse, she has returned books with stains upon the pages.” This clearly was an unforgivable offense. “I assume the marks are from chocolate or some other confection that includes an oil of some kind, for they cannot be removed from the paper.”

“How careless.”

“It is outrageous and slothful.” Miss Carruthers took a breath, her voice dropping in indignation. “And corners have been folded on the pages of books she has returned.”

“How heinous.”

She glared at him. “There is nothing amusing in the abuse of books, sir. It is one thing to show such disregard for one’s own volumes, but those from a lending library are shared as a kind of sacred trust. They should be treated with more care.”

Her passionate defense of books was both fierce and enthralling, that Arthur could only wonder how he had imagined she was dispassionate. Her eyes shone with conviction and she was entirely more animated than she had been previously.

She was as glorious as a warrior queen and he could only stare at her in admiration.

When he did not reply, she caught her breath and raised a gloved hand to her lips. “Oh, I fear I have been too forthright. Is there an understanding between yourself and Miss Grosvenor?”

“No, thank the heavens,” Arthur said heartily. “I can only assure you, Miss Carruthers, that you would find the lady’s character lacking in more ways than these if you were better acquainted.”

“I shall never be better acquainted with her, Mr. Beckham. She is the daughter of a very wealthy man and will undoubtedly wed into the aristocracy.”

Arthur was intrigued by her implication. “Do you not think you might?”

Miss Carruthers laughed, such a delightful sound that Arthur wished to amuse her again. “Not I, sir.”

“But your sister wed a baron.”

“Because the Duke of Haynesdale arranged the match. I still do not know what prompted his kindness to our family, but it has evidently been exhausted by that deed.”

She did not seem troubled by this. She accepted it as a fact, a stroke of good fortune for her sister, and neither resented it nor expected similar advantage herself. Arthur had to admire her serenity and her apparent happiness for her sibling. That spoke well of her nature, in his view.

Her eyes twinkled a little as she studied him. “Was Miss Grosvenor truly the topic upon which you wished to consult me? I fear I cannot give anyone who abuses books a good reference.”

“Not precisely. I must confess a tale, Miss Carruthers, that does not show me in good light, then cast myself at your mercy.”

She only lifted a fair brow, her gaze steady upon him as she waited.

“My uncle, the Earl of Fairhaven, is a habitual gambler, and one not inclined to be lucky.”

“It is a malaise shared by many, to my understanding.”

“Indeed. And so, lacking for resource and likely in his cups, he made an uncommon wager with the father of Miss Grosvenor last night.”

“Indeed?”

“He declared that I should wed that man’s daughter if he lost.”

“Oh!” He watched as she realized his implication. “Surely he did not lose?” she whispered.

Arthur nodded grimly. “Surely he did.”

“And you do not desire this match?”

“No. If I had desired it, I would have offered for the lady’s hand myself.”

Miss Carruthers nodded agreement. “What a lamentable circumstance for you, with your uncle’s honor at stake. Other than offering my sympathy, I do not understand how I might be able to assist.”

“I lied, Miss Carruthers,” Arthur admitted. “Faced with the prospect of wedding the lady in question against my will, I told my uncle that such an event was impossible, since I was already betrothed.” He lifted his gaze to hers and saw a wary understanding appear there.

“Not to me?”

“To you.”

Her cheeks were stained a fetching pink at that. “But why?” She shook her head, as if struggling to make sense of his choice. “No one would believe that you would choose me.”

“Whyever not? You are pretty, you are sensible, you are educated…”

“I should have preferred to have heard those attributes in a different order, sir,” she said with a small and mischievous smile.

Arthur continued, undeterred, though he could not avert his gaze from that smile. “You are from a respectable family. I wager we should never be bored with each other’s company, for you read. Undoubtedly, you can discuss politics or whatever other topic I might wish to explore in conversation.”

“These are thin reasons to make a lifetime bond, sir, and thinner ones to choose my name above all others.”

“I had just spoken with you. You were in my thoughts, as was my admiration of you.”

“Mr. Beckham,” she chided softly, making her skepticism clear. “I will not countenance a falsehood in this matter.”

But it was true. It was all true and, as he sat opposite her, Arthur was even more convinced that Miss Carruthers would make him a suitable wife. “You are right. You are honest,” he added. “That is no small detail. There would be trust between us.” He could not explain the wave of relief that coursed through him with the words. How long had it been since he had been able to completely trust anyone?

Over twenty years, since he had embarked upon a massive deception, though not of his own initiative. In that moment, Arthur realized the full weight of the burden he carried, and only because there was a prospect of putting it down.

Miss Carruthers, however, gave him a quelling look. “Even though the match would be based upon a falsehood you told to avoid a marriage you did not find appealing?”

“It was not truly a deception…” Arthur began, though he knew it was.

Miss Carruthers challenged him outright. “I cannot imagine how it might be more of one. You asserted that we were affianced when in fact, we are not.” She raised a hand to invite his agreement. “That, sir, is a lie, a falsehood and a deception.”

“But it was not malicious.”

“It might be viewed to be so, if you did not expect anyone to believe it.”

“Why would anyone doubt it?”

“Because I am old. Because my father is in trade. Because I have only a very small dowry, particularly in comparison to someone like Miss Grosvenor, and because, despite your flattery, I am not pretty. In addition, you fabricate attributes for my character, which you cannot possibly know to be true or false. There is no possible reason for you to court me, Mr. Beckham. It would not be rational .”

Hearing her reasons listed so logically and clearly only made Arthur want to argue with her. “But I like you,” he said simply. “And surely that is a better basis for matrimony and a better prospect for success in such an endeavor than money or advantage.”

She considered this. “It is highly unusual, Mr. Beckham.”

“I do not see that as a detriment. Hordes of people pursue bad choices all the time, simply on the recommendations of others.”

She studied him again, her expression intent.

At least she had not refused.

“Who else knows of this fabrication?” she asked finally.

“If you think I have stained your name with a rumor…”

“Who?”

“My uncle, of course, and my mother.” Arthur frowned. “But Lady Beckham had no social commitments today and I doubt she would share the story until it was confirmed by me. She understood that I was not entirely honest.”

“Then you habitually fabricate stories. That is no good endorsement, sir.”

“I am a terrible liar, Miss Carruthers. She saw through me immediately and I do not doubt that you would do the same.”

“And your uncle?”

“There is no telling who he might have told by now,” Arthur had to cede. “It has been some hours.”

“Perhaps even Mr. Grosvenor?”

“Perhaps.”

“Who would have undoubtedly told his wife and daughter?”

Arthur felt suddenly uneasy. “Perhaps.”

“And what of the servants in your household? Our butler makes a point of knowing all that transpires beneath the roof of Carruthers House.”

“But Stevens would not tell anyone…”

“Save the housekeeper and the cook.” She smiled. “The upstairs maid and the head footman.” She glanced up then considered him. “Do you think your driver knew before you handed me into the carriage? What of the footman riding at the back?”

Arthur was astounded. He had never considered how such tidings might travel, let alone how quickly. He had never considered that if Miss Carruthers did not agree, her reputation might be stained. “I do apologize, Miss Carruthers. I had no intention of placing a taint upon your name.”

“You thought only of your own escape. I understand.” She remarkably did not look inclined to judge him harshly. “If anything, Mr. Beckham, such a tale might improve my eligibility.”

Arthur could not countenance the possibility of her wedding anyone else, not if he could convince her to accept him. “That will not be relevant if you wed me.” He leaned closer. “I will do anything, Miss Carruthers, to win your agreement.”

Her gaze locked with his, so bright and clear that he was certain she read his very thoughts.

“Anything?” she echoed as the carriage turned into Golden Square.

“Anything,” Arthur repeated with vehemence. He knew she would not demand a feat that scandalous or outrageous of him. She was temperate in her desires and dignified in her comportment.

She would likely want books.

She could have entire libraries if she accepted him.

“You may name your prize, Miss Carruthers.”

The carriage halted, though neither of them moved. “You must greatly dislike her,” his companion said finally.

“I do,” Arthur agreed, before he realized the obvious import of his words. He hurried on, lest she be insulted. “But I think, in this case, that impulse has steered me true. I am a great believer in the right possibilities presenting themselves at the right moment. Now that the notion has occurred to me, I intend to court you, Miss Carruthers, even if you decline me this time.”

“You must have other expectations from marriage than simply avoiding Miss Grosvenor.”

“A son, I suppose,” he ceded. “Any man might expect a son from his marriage.”

“And you offer anything in return,” she repeated softly, so softly that Arthur felt a moment’s uncertainty.

How bad could it be?

“Tell me,” he urged as the footman opened the door. Miss Carruthers smiled, lowering her gaze so her thoughts were hidden from him. In this moment, she was a mystery and an enigma, a woman whose secrets could not be guessed. Arthur was intrigued. He alighted, then handed her down, escorting her toward the door of her father’s home.

She seemed to be lost in thought, but looked up suddenly to meet his gaze. “Do you have any knowledge of business, sir?”

What a curious question. “Some. Why?”

She halted and turned to face him. “Because what I would like most in all the world is to start a publishing company. Clearly, I cannot do as much on my own, for such ventures are established by men. But as marriage is a partnership, such a firm might be established by a married couple.”

Whatever Arthur might have expected of her, it was not this. “But your father is a publisher.”

“And Carruthers & Carruthers will be inherited by my male cousins.” Her eyes shone with a conviction he found most attractive. “I would build a business that could not be taken from me in the event of your demise, one that might provide a legacy for my children, one that might make a difference to others with its choice of offerings.”

Arthur left the question of his demise for the moment. “I do not understand.”

“I would cater to the tastes of ladies,” she said as if she had thought all of this through before his appearance at Bettencourt’s home. Arthur had the unexpected sense that she had been waiting for him to make her dream possible. “And they would frequent my lending library, and buy my books.” She smiled, triumphant and more alluring than she evidently guessed.

It was not madness. Arthur thought of novels, naturally, for Lady Beckham was an avid reader and could not apparently consume her fill of them. Poetry, even. Ladies had great fondness for volumes of poetry. Lady Beckham was not the only lady of affluence in London. He knew enough of trade to recognize that one had to offer a product that was in demand, so he nodded agreement.

“If that is your term, Miss Carruthers, I would be delighted to consider our bargain made.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper, those eyes opening wide as she leaned closer. “Do you have sufficient funds for such a venture, sir?”

“If not, I will find them.” He raised her gloved hand to his lips, watching satisfaction dawn in her eyes. “I vow it to you, Miss Carruthers.” She truly had the most beautiful eyes and when she flushed just a little, as she did now, Arthur wanted to argue against her conviction that she was not pretty.

He thought she was lovely.

In truth, Arthur could not imagine a more satisfactory outcome to his uncle’s wager.

He kissed her hand, lingering over the gesture until she caught her breath.

“Have you any other expectations of matrimony, Miss Carruthers? Love everlasting, perhaps?” He shook his head, recalling her claims. “No, that would not be your request.”

“And it is not,” she said crisply, her expression becoming discomfited. “But there is one detail I would know, Mr. Beckham.”

Her cheeks were crimson and her gaze flicked from his to his driver then to the butler at her father’s door. Her face became impossibly more red and Arthur could not look away.

“I am at your service, Miss Carruthers.”

She eased closer, lowering her voice and her lashes. “I should like to know if I have a bewitching spot.”

Arthur blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was in the book, the one you returned, the wrong book.” Her expression was fierce when she looked up at him. “It said of a specific lady: ‘ neither has the too frequent use of the most bewitching spot rendered it the least callous to the joys of love… ’” She inhaled, perhaps unaware that Arthur was astonished to silence. “I would like to know.”

“I find it very likely that you do,” he managed to say. “And I would be delighted to be of assistance in locating it upon our wedding night.”

She smiled with real pleasure, her eyes lighting as if he had hung the stars and the moon. “I thank you, Mr. Beckham. Then I accept.”

Arthur had a wicked thought. “I do not suppose that you would care to verify the content of this volume you wish to publish, the better to ensure that we do not provide false or misleading information to any clients.”

“But it is a book of amorous advice, by my understanding.”

He smiled. “And we will be wed.”

Her smile became mysterious. “Indeed, Mr. Beckham, I think that might be a prudent choice. I would like to be an example of a lady whose husband did not find such amusement elsewhere.”

He kissed her hand, holding her gaze, doubting he would ever find another woman of any interest at all. “Shall I call upon your father tomorrow, Miss Carruthers?” he murmured so softly that only she would hear.

She nodded quick agreement, then glanced toward his driver and footman, who appeared to be inattentive but most certainly were not. She squeezed his hand briefly before pulling her own away and her eyes danced. Better yet, she flushed slightly and he caught his breath at the sight. “Yes, Mr. Beckham. I would be most gratified if you do.”

“Then I will, Miss Carruthers.” He smiled as he watched her run up the steps. The butler swept open the door, sparing Arthur a disapproving glance that prompted the recipient of that glare to beam and bow.

Doubtless Miss Carruthers was right and he already knew their plans. The prospect made Arthur want to laugh aloud.

His goal had been achieved so easily as that. A publishing firm. She could have asked for the moon, a diamond coronet, a house in Berkley Square, a library as large as a palace, anything at all, but no, nothing so predictable would suffice to win the favor of Miss Patience Carruthers.

He found himself distracted by the notion of hunting her bewitching spot, and of satisfying her curiosity about matters amorous. He would have to ensure that he did not disappoint on that venture.

“Home, Morris,” Arthur said as he stepped into the carriage again. He took a long look at the family home of the lady he would marry, considered that this was unlikely to be the last time she surprised him so completely, and grinned as he rapped his cane on the roof of the carriage.

This match might prove to be entertaining, indeed. Already he felt a welcome sense of purpose, one that had been lacking in his life, and anticipated a merry challenge to meet the lady’s demand. Arthur laughed aloud, knowing all ran in his favor.

While the run of luck endured, he had to make it count.

* * *

Was it a jest?

Patience did not even consider the possibility until Mr. Beckham was gone. She was well aware that he had teased her earlier, and he did seem the kind of gentleman to enjoy a joke. Surely, he was not so cruel as to make one at her expense, though? Surely, she had done nothing to earn such disdain?

She did not think so, but the notion made her uneasy all the same.

Pretty . He had called her pretty. Was that an honest assessment or a compliment intended to earn her favor?

What had Miss Grosvenor done to earn his dislike? He had not even been aware of that lady’s abuse of books.

There was an entire wealth of knowledge that Patience realized she did not possess. She had no notion of the costs of establishing a publishing firm, not just the funds required, but the equipment and skilled individuals that would have to be retained. She had no notion of where such an establishment might be located or should be located, much less the cost of such a facility.

Worse again, she had no understanding of Mr. Beckham’s worth. Women chattered all the time in the bookstore about inheritances and incomes, but Patience had never listened. On this day, she regretted her disinterest.

Could Mr. Beckham afford to keep his promise? Did he even know whether he could afford it? Many an aristocrat was a fool about money. His own uncle was proof of that. Just because he was reputed to spend lavishly and to shop without regard to expense did not mean Mr. Beckham could afford his lifestyle. He might owe his income and even his inheritance to a moneylender.

Had she just made an impulsive and whimsical choice? There was little that might have been more out of character—but then, she had never been confronted with Mr. Beckham and his twinkling eyes, his alluring smile and his determination to have her agreement at any price.

Her heart fluttered in recollection of his earnest appeal.

Patience believed that his vow had been made in good faith, but believing something was possible was not the same as knowing it to be possible, much less seeing it done. Marriage was forever, or as close to it as might be seen in this world. She needed to be certain before the agreement was made.

But how? Patience could not be so vulgar as to ask him.

Her father might not be disposed to tell her.

She could ask Catherine, but she had just left Trevelaine House and Mr. Beckham had said he would call upon her father the next morning. It was entirely possible that Baron Trevelaine believed Mr. Beckham’s finances to be sound, given that he had facilitated the opportunity for that man to propose. But he could not know her condition for the match, and he might not even know the expense of that.

Her younger sister, Prudence, was the most accomplished gossip in the family. Doubtless she could provide some insight into Mr. Beckham’s situation, if Patience managed to sound not overly curious. How could she ask for such detail without sharing the news of her agreement to wed Mr. Beckham?

How could she share the news without her father’s approval of the match?

Discretion was imperative, until her father decided. As much as Patience hated that truth, she would have to wait.

Too late, she realized she had given her agreement without acquiring all the pertinent details first. Such haste was greatly unlike her, but Mr. Arthur Beckham had a way of muddling her thoughts.

Surely that was not a bad portent for their match? Patience did not know, but the collection of questions gave her much to ponder.

* * *

Lady Beckham was waiting for Arthur when he returned to the house.

He had no warning of her expectation and had just put down his hat in the hall when she called him from the drawing room. It was late for her to yet be downstairs and he spared a glance at the hall clock. Generally, at this hour, she would have retired to dress for dinner.

But no. She was seated like a queen in the drawing room, hands folded in her lap, her manner so composed that Arthur felt a prickle of dread.

“Good evening, Mother. I had thought you would be dressing for dinner,” he said, bowing as he entered the room.

“Close the door, Arthur,” she said crisply, a slight emphasis on his name.

There was his warning.

Arthur did as instructed and returned to stand before her.

This would be the reckoning about Miss Carruthers. He had halfway expected it.

“Her father is in trade,” Lady Beckham said quietly, using the timbre of voice she favored when she did not wish the servants to hear a syllable.

He nodded for that was indisputable.

“You could have chosen someone else,” she said, her tone a little waspish. “You could have made a choice that would not humiliate me.”

But Arthur was done with playing by Lady Beckham’s rules.

Doubtless his confession would surprise her, but it was time.

“Twenty years,” he said so quietly that his words were no more than a breath. He held her gaze, knowing his resolve was evident. She might interpret it as defiance, but Arthur did not care. “Surely, you are due one disappointment.”

She caught her breath. “You should not have said it. It was an impulse, no more than that, a tantrum, and you could rescind it. Choose someone else, anyone else, I entreat you.”

“I will wed Miss Patience Carruthers and no other.”

Lady Beckham considered him, and he wondered if she could see the depth of his resolve. She inhaled sharply and drummed her fingers on her own skirts. “You must guess the price of such impetuousness.”

He shrugged. “It is yours to decree. The happiness of a man you call your son, or the approval of the ton .” He did not doubt that his manner made his view of that choice clear. Once she had ignored the view of others, but in her later years, she was much more concerned with their approval.

Her gaze snapped before she looked away. “I suppose a man cannot evade his destiny and your heritage had to show, sooner or later.”

Arthur straightened. He knew Lady Beckham was a snob, but she had not cast his lineage at him before. That she did as much now only increased his resolve—no matter the price. “I could have followed the earl’s dictate and inherited the title.”

She shuddered visibly and her eyes narrowed. “By wedding that girl. He would never surrender it willingly and you know it well.”

“Once you wished for a son to hold that earldom.”

“Once, my brother was young and sickly, and I believed I owed my father an heir.”

Arthur understood that resolve had faded. Reynaud had grown to manhood and despite his flaws, she saw him and his potential children as more deserving of the title than the boy she had adopted as her own.

It was a relief, in a way, to have the truth declared. Arthur had never desired the title, and in truth, he bored of the endless leisure and luxury of his position. He wanted a goal, an objective, a quest even—and Miss Carruthers offered him one. She might have been destined to put her hand in his.

The lady’s lips pressed together as she met his gaze again. “I could cast you out.”

He had expected this threat for years, though she had never before made it. “You could,” he agreed calmly. “And we could tell all the world of our long-standing deception. I rather think you would be judged more harshly than me. I was just a penniless orphan, a mere boy, and you were an aristocrat with every advantage.”

The lady caught her breath. “My brother cannot understand why you would decline a rich bride in favor of a young lady whose father is not only in trade but whose dowry must be smaller.” Her lips tightened as she surveyed Arthur. “I told him it was love, that you followed in my footsteps.”

Arthur did not correct her. He was not in love, but he imagined one day he might love Miss Carruthers ardently. For the moment, it was sufficient that she was his choice, not one made for him or forced upon him. “I trust the earl is content with your explanation.”

“He is not. Nor am I.” Lady Beckham inhaled deeply and shook her head. “You will bring her to tea and if I do not approve, then you will not wed her.”

Arthur leaned closer, his resolve strengthening with every word Lady Beckham uttered. “Independent of your view of Miss Carruthers, I will wed her,” he vowed.

“But…”

“Our arrangement has been amusing and certainly an adventure, Lady Beckham, but I will not regret if it all ends tomorrow.”

She stared at him in silence for a moment before recovering herself. “You cannot mean that. You would be destitute. You would lose all the advantages you have come to rely upon. You would be nothing . Again!”

Arthur did not reply.

Lady Beckham took a breath, scowling into the corner of the room. It was clear she considered the alternatives. “The truth would be a scandal,” she whispered, naming her own fear. “After all these years.” She fixed him with a look. “I will ensure that the children have nothing.”

He shrugged. “I have had nothing and survived it.”

“You forget yourself…”

“No, not I. This choice, Lady Beckham, is entirely yours.” Arthur bowed over her hand, then spun to depart. His step was lighter than it had been in a long time, for he felt he had cast off a burden. He would be free again, perhaps more penniless than Miss Carruthers anticipated, but his choices would be his own again.

And that was more than worth any price he might have to pay.

He would not dine with Lady Beckham on this evening, not when she was vexed with him, but he would go out. Such indulgences might soon be beyond his means, after all.

And if the cards showed him favor, if this sense of opportunity continued, he might begin to amass some funds for his shared future with Miss Carruthers. Could they create a successful firm together? In his current mood, Arthur believed it could be so, but he knew that he had to make the most of every moment to contribute to the prospect of success.

He had a quest and he could not wait to begin.