Her Cinderella Season

‘Would you like me to make some inquiries?’ Charles asked.

‘Both Treyford and I already have. Batiste has disappeared. He could be anywhere. All the Foreign Office could give me was that name—Matthew Beecham. A young shipbuilder—an Englishman from Dorset who moved to America to pursue his craft. Somehow he became mixed up with Batiste, and found himself in trouble with the American government. He’s disappeared as well. The Americans have made a formal complaint against him. They want to question him and have asked that he be detained, should he show up back at home.’

‘So? Does the girl hail from Dorset? Did you ask her if she has a relative named Matthew?’

‘Not yet.’ Jack watched Charles from the corner of his eye. ‘I would dearly like to talk to the man. He’s the only link I’ve been able to find. I’m not going to be able to rest until Batiste is caught and made to pay for his crimes.’

Perched ramrod straight now, Charles looked earnest as he spoke. ‘You know, Jack, I’ve never known you to fall so quickly into something so…dangerous, as you did with Treyford.’

Jack bristled slightly.

‘Now, forget that it is your older brother speaking and calm yourself,’ Charles admonished. ‘There must have been a reason for it, something that drew you into the fray.’

There had been, of course, but he was not going to share it with his brother. Once Jack had heard Treyford’s story of a band of antiquity thieves menacing Chione Latimer and her family, he’d known he had to help. He and Charles were both all too aware of the difficulties of living with an unsettled sense of menace.

‘Whatever the reason, I, for one, am happy to see you out from behind your wall of books.’ Charles’s gaze slid over Jack’s sling. ‘I’m sorry that all you appeared to get from your adventure was a bullet hole, but I would neither see you slide back into your old hibernating ways nor allow yourself to become embroiled in something even more complicated and hazardous.’

‘What would you have me do, then?’ Jack asked with just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Embroidery? Tatting?’ He raked his brother with an exasperated glance. ‘I’ve already told you, I have neither the inclination nor the patience for politics.’

Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Why don’t you just relax,

Jack? It’s been an age since either Mother or I have been able to drag you out of your rooms. Have a break from your work. Not everyone is fascinated with your mouldy classics.’

‘They should be,’ Jack said, just to tweak his brother.

Charles ignored him. ‘Look about you for once,’ he continued. ‘Enjoy the Season, squire Mother to a society event or two.’ He grimaced. ‘Or if the thought of society is too distasteful, you can help Mother and Sophie with their charitable efforts. If you had paid attention, you would see that Mother is slowly becoming more and more involved with the work that the Evangelical branch of the Church is doing. This charity bazaar she is helping with is just a small example of their work. Their presence is only growing stronger as the years pass. Who knows? They might actually succeed in changing the face of society. And you might even find whatever it is you were looking for.’

‘The only thing I’m looking for is Batiste.’

Charles sighed. ‘Well, look again, little brother.’ He leaned back again, his grip on the side tightening as the bay on the left shied from a calling-card vendor.

Jack was forced to watch the pair closely once more. His mind was awhirl. Perhaps he should consider something different from his usual classical studies—and if his new path also brought him closer to finding information on Batiste, then so much the better. If this Beecham girl and his mother were both involved with the Evangelicals, then perhaps he could look into them as well. Charles could believe what he liked about Jack’s need to find something he was missing. He knew the truth of the matter and it involved nothing so mawkish or sentimental.

And neither, he told himself firmly, did it have anything to do with the shine of red-gold hair or the taste of soft, plump lips.

Chapter Three

A stranger inhabited Lily’s skin. Or perhaps it had only been so long since determination had pumped so fiercely through her veins, it felt as if it were so. But this was the old Lily—her father’s daughter, sure and strong, confident that whatever she wished for lay within her reach. Almost as if it were happening to someone else, she watched herself talk, smile and climb into Mr Wilberforce’s barouche. He and Lady Dayle were soon engaged in a spirited debate over reform. Fortunate, since this left Lily free to turn her rediscovered resolve to answering Mr Alden’s troubling question: What sort of female are you?

She barely knew where to start, but she did discover that some aspects of the new Lily—her mother’s daughter—were not so easily discarded. And all of them were firmly fixated on the sudden burst of light that had shone down on Mr Alden for one dazzling moment. Surely it had been nothing more than a stray sunbeam?

Perhaps not. Her nurse’s superstitious Cornish wisdom had been a constant in her life and it had taken firm root in Lily’s mind while she was still young. In recent years it had flourished into a guilt-ridden tangle.

So often she’d worried that she’d missed some forewarning of her father’s tragic death. The storm that ultimately killed him had been immense. Nurse had moaned that his loss had been punishment for their failure to heed several unmistakable portents of doom.

Lily had vowed never to make another such mistake. But surely a bright beam of light was no portent of doom. Then what could it possibly mean?

With every fibre of her being, Lily wanted it to mean the change she longed for. It had touched on Mr Alden. Could it be that he would be an instrument of change? She flushed. Or was it possible that he might be something more?

‘Lady Dayle,’ she spoke up into a pause in the conversation, ‘I fear that your son has re-injured his arm because of my inattention. I wish you would convey my apologies.’

The viscountess patted her arm. ‘Do not fret yourself, my dear. Jack should not have been driving those cantankerous animals in the first place. I dare say his brother told him so. But Charles should have remembered that the instant he counselled against it, it would become the single thing in the world that must be done.’

Lily smiled. She’d grown up with her cousin Matthew and he had acted in just the same way. ‘How did Mr Alden first injure his arm?’

Lady Dayle frowned. ‘Oh, he got caught up in that trouble at the Egyptian Hall, at Mr Belzoni’s exhibition. I haven’t the faintest idea how or why—I had no inkling that Jack even knew Belzoni or Lord Treyford. It was just a few weeks ago—perhaps you heard of it?’

Lily shook her head.

‘Yes, I heard of it,’ Mr Wilberforce intervened. ‘A ring of international art thieves, or something similar, was it not?’

‘Something like,’ Lady Dayle agreed. ‘Jack will barely speak of it—even to me. And believe me, when her son is shot, a mother wants to know why.’

‘Good heavens,’ Lily said. She stirred in her seat. ‘Shot? Mr Alden must lead quite an exciting life.’

‘But that is just it! The entire thing was so patently unlike him. Jack is a scholar, Miss Beecham, and a brilliant one at that. At times he is all but a recluse. He spends more time closeted with his ancient civilisations than with anyone flesh and blood.’ She shot Mr Wilberforce a significant look. ‘He is my inscrutable son, sir, and too reserved and detached from society to cause me much concern—especially compared to the rigmarole his brothers subjected me to.’

Mr Wilberforce laughed, but Lily fought back an undeniable surge of disappointment. A scholar? Inscrutable and reserved? It didn’t fit the image she’d already built around that wicked smile.

But what did she know of men? An image of her father flashed in her mind. He dwelled heavily in her mind today—a natural reaction on a day when her past and her future appeared destined to collide. On the rare occasion she allowed herself to dream, the portrait she drew of a husband always shared important traits with George Beecham: twinkling eyes, a ready smile and a never-ending thirst for the next new experience. Never would she have conjured up a dry, dusty scholar who hid from life behind his books.

Lily had been hiding for seven long years. She’d done with it. She wasn’t her father’s little girl any more, but neither would she continue as her mother’s quiet handmaiden. She fought back a surge of guilt. She didn’t mean to abandon her mother, nor did she wish to give up the good works she had done along with her. She only wanted the chance to live her own life, while she worked to help others better theirs. Superstition would not make that chance happen. Neither, it seemed, would Mr Alden. She clenched her fists. She would find a way, and do it herself.

It was time she melded the two halves of her soul and finally answered that pesky question. It was time she discovered who Lily Beecham was.

Jack kept his senses alert, his eye sharp for movement in the roadway ahead. This was likely not the best time to be skulking about the East End, especially not on his own. But his eagerness for his brother’s company had waned after listening to his admonitions and advice this afternoon. Charles would only have tried to talk him out of coming down here at all.

So Jack had dropped off his brother and then returned Pettigrew’s nasty bays, and now he found his feet taking him towards the river, towards the reputedly abandoned shipping offices of Gustavo Batiste.

Little Bure Street was not exactly a hotbed of activity in the late evening. A pair of prostitutes propositioned him from a doorway, but he shook his head and continued on. No doubt anyone with legitimate business in these dockside buildings had long since gone home, but the full swing of the illicit enterprises of the night had not yet begun. It didn’t matter; the alleyway he sought lay just ahead. Jack slipped in and stood a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the deeper blackness before he moved forwards cautiously. He flexed his sore arm as he went. The narrow space was more a passage than a street, but it opened on to a small walled courtyard at the end. Opposite him a rickety set of wooden stairs led to an office. Across the doorway sagged a crooked sign: G. Batiste & Co.

Mervyn Latimer and Treyford had both warned him this would be a waste of time. The offices had been deserted for months. But Jack had a need to see for himself. He eased up the stairs, careful to keep his footsteps quiet.

The door was not locked. Jack pushed it open with his free hand and was forced to stop again and adjust his eyesight. It was pitch black in the small anteroom. It took several long moments for his eyes to adapt, but there was nothing to see once they had. A listing table, a couple of small chairs and dust lying thick on every surface. He shook his head. What had he expected? He was grasping at straws. His obsession with Batiste was not logical, his involuntary association of the villain with his dead father utterly without a rational basis.

From the back of the building came a thump and a muffled curse. Jack froze. His pulse began to race. Slowly he reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. He’d taken to keeping it there, since his misadventures with Treyford. It felt awkward and unbalanced in his left hand, but it was better than nothing.

A closed door lay to the right of the broken table. He eased it open and found another narrow hallway. Several more doors were closed on either side, but the last one on the right stood cracked open, a faint light shining from within.

Who could it be? Silently he made his way there. He flattened himself against the wall and eased his arm from the sling. From inside the room came the sound of rustling papers and opening drawers. Grimacing at the strain, he placed his right hand on the doorway and gripped his knife tight with the other.

Thwang. Jack stared in shock and fascination as a wickedly vibrating blade abruptly sprouted from the opposite doorframe.

‘I got another o’ those,’ a voice rasped from within. ‘But this building’s cheap and that wall is paper thin. I’m thinkin’ it might just be easier to shoot you through it.’

The tension unexpectedly drained out of Jack, replaced by a rising flood of relief. He knew that voice.

‘Eli!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s me, Jack Alden.’

The door flew open. The erstwhile sea captain turned groom stared at him in surprise. ‘Jack Alden! What in blazes are ye doing here?’

‘I might ask the same of you, old man!’ Jack pocketed his own blade and thumped the grizzled old sailor on the shoulder. Eli grunted and crossed back to the desk he’d been rifling through. The rap of his peg-leg on the wooden floor sounded loud in the small office. Jack pulled the blade from the doorframe.

‘How’s the arm?’ Eli asked. ‘Ye look a sight better’n the last time I saw ye.’

‘It’s healing. But why aren’t you in Devonshire with Mervyn and Trey and Chione and all the rest of them? They’ve all got to be busy, what with a wedding to plan and one hell of trip coming up.’

‘Aye,’ tis a madhouse at times.’ He held out a hand and Jack gave back his knife. With a sigh he slammed a drawer shut and sat in the seat behind the desk. ‘Mervyn and Trey sent me up. Something’s astir.’

‘Batiste?’ Jack asked, with a sweep of his hand.

‘You know Mervyn’s ways. He’s got ears everywhere and hears every bird fart and every whisper o’ trouble. He’s got word that some of Batiste’s men are on the move. Here. In England.’

Anger surged in Jack’s gut. ‘God, it eats at me, knowing he got away,’ he said. The low and harsh tone of his voice surprised even him. He struggled again to rein in his emotion. ‘I hate the thought of it—him sitting back, silent and scornful, manipulating us like so many puppets.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘After all he’s done to Mervyn, he needs to be brought to justice.’

‘What he’s done to Mervyn’s bad enough. But he’s done others far worse. What worrit’s me is the idea of him having time to stew. Revenge is his favourite dish and he’ll be spittin’ mad at how we foiled him.’

‘So what do you hope to find here?’

Eli glanced at him. ‘The same thing you were, I s’pose. Some hint o’ where he might be hiding out. With the Americans after him as well as the Royal Navy, he’s got to lie low for a while.’

‘The bastard’s got a ship and the whole world to hide in.’ Jack sighed.

‘Trey thinks he won’t go too far. He didn’t get what he wanted, and he thinks he’ll try again. Like any man, he’ll have a spot or two he goes to when his back is against the wall. Trouble is findin’ it.’

Jack stood a little straighter. ‘I might have a lead on that shipbuilder, Beecham. Perhaps he knows where Batiste would go to hide his head.’

‘Dowhatyecan, man.’ Elisighed. ‘I know Trey hates to ask ye—especially after ye got hurt the first time. But won’t none of us be truly safe until that man is caught and hung.’

‘I will. Tell Trey I will handle it.’ He stared at the old man with resolution. ‘In fact, I think it should be possible for me to begin right now.’

‘Mr Wilberforce asked you to do what?’ Lily’s dish of tea hovered, halfway up. The evening had grown late. Lady Ashford and her mother had arrived to fetch her, and Lady Dayle had pressed them to stay for a cold supper.

‘To make a tour through Surrey and Kent, speaking with local groups of Evangelicals along the way,’ her mother repeated.

‘Your mother has accomplished wonders in Weymouth, Miss Beecham.’ Lady Ashworth accepted a slice of cheese from the platter Lady Dayle offered. ‘She can share her methods and be an inspiration to many others.’

‘Of course.’ Lily’s mind raced. This was just exactly what she’d wished for; a chance to travel, to see new places and meet new people. Her breathing quickened and her pulse began to beat a little faster. ‘Mother, I’m so proud of you.’

‘Congratulations, Mrs Beecham,’ said Lady Dayle. ‘You shall be one of the leading ladies of a very great movement. And to have the request come from Mr Wilberforce himself is quite an honour, is it not?’

‘Thank you, it is indeed an honour.’ Her mother looked exhausted. Lily felt a twinge of guilt. She’d spent a perfectly lovely afternoon with the viscountess and her mother had not even had a chance to celebrate her accomplishment.

‘Will we be returning home first, Mother? Or shall we leave straight from town?’ she asked. ‘Either way, we must be sure that you rest beforehand. I can see you are quite worn out.’

An uncomfortable look passed across her mother’s face. ‘I’ll be leaving from London in a few days, dear. Lady Ashford has graciously agreed to accompany me.’ She met Lily’s eye with resolve. ‘You will be returning home.’

‘What?’ This time she was forced to set her cup down with shaking hands. ‘You cannot mean that!’

‘We’ve been away from home too long as it is. Someone needs to oversee the Parish Poor Relief Committee. The planning needs to begin now for the Michaelmas festival. We cannot abandon our duty to those less fortunate.’

‘There are plenty of ladies at home willing and able to take care of those things,’ Lily argued. ‘Mother, please!’ Resentment and disbelief churned in her belly. It was true that her mother had found less and less joy in life over the years. Her father’s death had been a blow to them both. Grief and guilt were heavy burdens to bear, but Lily had been forced to cope alone. Sometimes she felt she had grieved twice over, for her quiet, reserved mother had sunk into a decline and a militant stranger had climbed out the other side.

Restrictive, distant, hard to please—yes. But Lily had never suspected her mother of deliberate cruelty before today. First Mr Cooperage and now—

She stopped, aghast. ‘Does Mr Cooperage factor into this decision, Mother? Because I tell you now that I am not interested in his views on any subject!’

‘Lilith!’ her mother gasped. ‘We will not discuss it further. This is entirely inappropriate!’

‘Well then, it appears I have arrived at the perfect time,’ an amused masculine voice interrupted.

Lily turned to find Mr Alden framed handsomely in the doorway. An instant flush began to spread up and over her.

Was she doomed to always encounter this man at a serious disadvantage?

He advanced into the room and she tried to collect herself. Not an easy task. Poetic—that was the word that had sprung to mind earlier. Brooding was the one that popped up now. Darkly handsome and brooding. Though he had a sardonic smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, the effect was ruined by the rest of him. She just could not be entirely intimidated by anyone in that rumpled state. He looked as if his valet had dressed him in the height of fashion, in only the best silk and superfine, and then laid him down and rolled him repeatedly about on the bed. She tightened her mouth at the image evoked and her flush grew stronger yet. A great many women, she strongly suspected, would enjoy rolling Mr Alden about on the bed.

‘Jack, darling.’ Lady Dayle rose to welcome her son. ‘Do come in and join us. The ladies have only just finished with the fair and we are taking a cold supper.’

He kissed his mother on the cheek and made an elegant bow to the rest of the ladies. Lily shifted slightly away as he took the chair directly next to hers.

‘I should thank you right away, Miss Beecham,’ he said with a quirk of a smile in her direction. ‘Usually I am the one for ever introducing inappropriate topics to the conversation. My brother informs me that virtually no one else cares for my mouldy ancients.’ He leaned back. The seating was so close that Lily could feel the heat emanating from him. ‘But you have saved me the trouble.’ He raised a brow at her. ‘Which distasteful subject have you brought to the table?’

‘Never mind that, Jack,’ scolded his mother. ‘Mrs Beecham has been granted a singular honour. We are celebrating.’

Lady Ashford explained while Lily fumed.

‘My heartfelt congratulations,’ Mr Alden said to her mother when the countess had finished. He turned again to Lily. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy the journey, Miss Beecham. There are some amazingly picturesque vistas in that part of the country.’

‘I am not to go, Mr Alden.’ Lily could not keep the anger completely from her tone. ‘I am instead sent home like a wayward child.’

She noticed that he grew very still. ‘Where is home, if I might ask?’

‘In Dorset, near Weymouth,’ she answered, though she did not see the relevance of the question.

‘Ah.’ He steepled his fingers and thought a moment. ‘I suppose I can understand your mother’s point of view.’

Irritation nearly choked Lily. She glared at him.

‘You can?’ asked her mother in surprise.

‘Yes, well, it is only fair to consider both sides of the argument, and you must admit that travelling with an innocent young girl must always be complicated.’

‘Innocent young girl?’ Lily objected. ‘I am nearly three and twenty and I have seen and done many things in the course of my volunteer work.’

‘I do not doubt you, but the fact remains that you are a young, unmarried lady. As such you will most likely require frequent stops to rest, and special arrangements for private parlours to shield you from the coarser elements. If you stay at private homes, there will have to be thought given as to whether or not any single gentlemen are in residence. Not to mention that you will have to have a chaperon for every minute of every day. Without a doubt, two older, more mature ladies will travel easier alone.’

Lily gaped at him.

‘You can see the logic of the situation.’ He nodded towards her.

‘There are so many things wrong with that litany of statements that I must give serious consideration on where to begin,’ she responded.

‘Do tell,’ he invited. That lurking grin spread a little wider.

‘I could refute your errors one by one, but instead I will merely ask you if you have any sisters, Mr Alden?’

‘Nary a one.’

‘Then I fail to see where you might have come by any experience travelling with innocent young ladies,’ she said hotly. ‘And if you are in the habit of consorting with other types, then I would only beg you not to equate me with them!’

‘Lilith!’ Her mother was clearly scandalised.

Lady Dayle, however, laughed. ‘Bravo, Miss Beecham! You have routed him in one fell swoop. But now you are both guilty of introducing inappropriate topics to the conversation, so let us talk of something else.’ She frowned at her son. ‘Do not tease the dear girl, Jack. I believe it is a real disappointment for her.’

Mr Alden nodded at his mother, then spared a glance for Lily. Mortified, she avoided his eye.

Lady Ashford offered him the tray of biscuits. He took one and Lily saw him blink thoughtfully at the countess. 'Will the two of you exceptional ladies be travelling alone?’ he asked in an innocent tone.

‘In fact, we will not,’ the countess answered. ‘Mr Cooperage will accompany us. We thought it possible to also raise money for his mission as we travel.’

‘I knew it!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘Only today he informed me that he did not approve of ladies travelling from home.’

She cast a disparaging glance at Mr Alden. ‘I just did not expect to find other gentlemen in agreement with such an antiquated notion.’

‘I said no such thing,’ he protested. ‘I said it was complicated, not that it should not be done. Is Mr Cooperage the gentleman from Park Lane, the one who was with you when you had your…near accident?’

‘He is.’

‘And he is an Evangelical, is he not?’

‘He is. Why do you ask?’

Mr Alden drew a deep breath. He sat a little straighter. For the first time Lily noticed true animation in his face and a light begin to shine in his eye.

‘I ask because I admit to some curiosity about the Evangelicals. For instance, I find their attitudes towards women to be conflicting and confusing.’