Chapter 23
A s soon as Jasper left them at the modiste, Frankie regretted bringing Cecelia along. Frankie loved beautiful gowns as much as the next woman, especially the green shades, but she had been raised in a household that kept a strict eye on the accounts and she had been trained to spend conservatively. Cecelia had no such restraint.
“She needs three ball gowns,” Cecelia informed the modiste. Under normal circumstances the modiste would have been curt with the overenthusiastic girl, but the Mr. Jasper Jones had visited her in person , so instead the modiste nodded and simpered and saw to Cecelia’s every wish, all while her mouth twitched as she desperately fought the impulse to ask why Mr. Jones was buying such an expensive wardrobe for his governess.
Cecelia gave Frankie a sly look. “My uncle’s newest beneficiary will need the most in-fashion cut. The lower the neckline, the better.”
“No, not the lower the neckline the better,” Frankie said.
“Beneficiary?” the modiste asked with unveiled curiosity, ignoring Frankie.
“Oh yes,” Cecelia replied airily. “Many people do not know how charitable Uncle Jasper is. When he discovered Miss Turner might never wed for lack of a suitable dowry, he placed an enormous sum on her. We shall be like sisters now, won’t we?”
Three hours later, Frankie and Cecelia exited the shop just as Lady Trathers entered. “Well, that ought to do it,” Frankie whispered as the woman’s keen eyes took them in and sparked with interest. Lady Trathers marched straight toward the modiste, no doubt to get all the good gossip on Mr. Jasper Jones’s niece and her governess. “By the end of the day everyone will know about the dowry. Cecelia, you truly spent too much of Jasper’s money.”
Cecelia lifted her fan and beat the humid air around her face. “’Twas barely a dent in Uncle Jasper’s fortune. Besides, if you expect to succeed with your ruse, you must look the part. It was very fortunate that the modiste had a few gowns you could purchase on the spot.” Cecelia looked over her shoulder at the footman who trailed behind them carrying several flat boxes. “It must be nice to be of normal height. The gold one is sure to drive Uncle Jasp—any potential suitors absolutely mad. You must wear it tonight for your debut as the summer’s wealthiest spinster.”
Frankie groaned and prayed her mother did not hear about this startling turn of events, although she knew that was a prayer unlikely to be answered. Jasper’s charity case would be the largest piece of gossip since the announcement of her friend Emily’s betrothal to the extremely wealthy bachelor Mr. Zachariah Denholm.
Frankie really should have thought longer about the ramifications the lie would have on her family. Her mother had already been severely disappointed once when Frankie had finished four Seasons without a proposal, and when this supposedly massive dowry did not turn up a suitor, she would be devastated all over again. Frankie knew that over time the scandal of her not making a match, even when she had a veritable fortune attached to her name, would become old news, but it would never be forgotten.
Frankie did not mind—she had accepted her fate as a spinster long ago—but she did worry about Fidelia. If the Dove found Fidelia before she managed to ruin her own reputation and coming-out, she would still have to contend with Frankie’s failure casting a deep shadow over her. Frankie vowed right then that she would sell every last one of the outrageous gowns Cecelia had just ordered so that she could fund a satisfactory dowry for Fidelia. Perhaps Fidelia would still have choices. Perhaps her future husband would be able to look past Fidelia’s sad older sister being unable to snag a match even with the help of Mr. Jasper Jones.
When Frankie and Cecelia reached home, Frankie found a message waiting from the Dove.
Frankie—
I am relieved to hear you were able to clear Mr. Jones’s name. Your letter reached me at the same time as the gossip that Mr. Jones has bestowed an innumerable sum on his governess in a shocking act of charity. Although I wish you would have shared your intentions with me before you acted, what is done is done. Someday I shall be quite interested to learn how such an arrangement came about. I believe the mastermind behind the Dowry Thieves to be extremely clever and unforgiving, so you must be vigilant when in public. I admit that your bait may be exactly what we need if you cannot find any commonality in the financial papers of the grooms.
~D~
Frankie vowed to continue looking over the financials the next morning, but now she needed to dress for the literary reception. The modiste had had two suitable gowns on hand, one of them an ethereal morning gown of white embroidered with delicate roses and greenery. The other was the gold gown Cecelia loved. The fabric was satin and so smooth that it reflected light. Tiny gold beads had been sewn across the waist and hem, making Frankie glitter with every swish and turn. The woman it had originally been designed for had had a smaller bust measurement than Frankie’s, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it really was the more appropriate gown of the two for the evening entertainment.
With a shrug, Frankie rang for Cecelia’s lady’s maid to help her dress, her thoughts consumed with financials and numbers.
Frankie waited for Jasper in the foyer and gulped when he appeared wearing a black coat and crisp white cravat. His dark trousers were molded to his muscled thighs, and his boots were so polished they shone. His trademark black ring flashed in the light as he tucked his tin pocket watch back into his coat and gave her a devastatingly handsome smile. Then his eyes swept over her and the smile faltered.
“Frankie, are you intent on making my job as difficult as possible?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” he growled, taking her elbow. He had not yet applied his gloves, and his long, tanned fingers slid along her skin in a caress that made a flush crawl over her chest. Frankie discreetly touched her eyebrows to make sure they were not singed along with the rest of her. Despite Cecelia’s claims to the contrary, Frankie was convinced Jasper had earned his devil-of-sin reputation fairly. When a man had that sort of effect on a woman with a simple elbow touch, he was sure to be dangerous indeed.
Suddenly Frankie was not sure she could stand being confined so close to him in the carriage. “Let us walk instead,” she burst out. “I require air.”
Jasper looked down at her with exasperation. “Have you seen the sky? It is set to pour any moment. Besides, Madam Margaret is in no condition to walk.”
“Then I had best hurry if I want to avoid the rain. You may ride with Madam Margaret.”
At that moment the lady in question appeared, outfitted in a dove-gray gown that had last been in fashion in 1795. Cecelia had whispered to Frankie that Jasper had tried to buy Madam Margaret new dresses, claiming it was a thank-you for her generosity in agreeing to chaperone, but that the older lady had declined, citing a preference for the more “conservative” dress style of yore.
“Madam Margaret!” Frankie gave her a genuine smile. “I think I shall walk to the reception and meet you and Mr. Jones there.”
“A young lady may not walk the streets without a chaperone.” Madam Margaret’s voice wavered with age as she tottered toward them. Her eyes were rheumy and her gait was unsure, but she seemed more alive than Frankie had ever seen her.
Frankie sighed internally and increased the brightness of her smile. “Very well, madam.”
The carriage ride to Lady Jane Coswold’s took ten minutes, and Frankie was careful to fill every spare moment with incessant chatter so that she might avoid having to think about the one thing that was becoming disturbingly apparent: She was attracted to Jasper Jones. With each word she spoke, the sky grew darker and lower outside the windows until it seemed that the clouds were pregnant with rain.
She was sick of her own voice by the time they reached the Coswold town house, which stood among a row of houses not nearly as grand as Jasper’s, but that possessed a dignified and wealthy air that made sure one checked the heels of one’s boots for mud before entering.
They were ushered into the sitting room where the furniture had been artfully arranged to leave an open space for the literary recitals. White, fragrant flowers filled ornate vases that were so large they had to be set on the floor, and the tinkle of glasses and hum of polite conversation filled the room.
The moment the three of them entered, Frankie knew what it was to walk into a viper’s den. Conversation quieted, and every set of eyes turned onto her and Jasper, and in them she read suspicion, greed, and calculation.
Jasper’s arm flexed under her palm as he warmly greeted their hostess, who was thrilled beyond measure to have not only Mr. Jasper Jones at her reception, but also Miss Francis Turner, who although genteelly bred, had never been important enough to invite before.
Frankie scanned the sitting room for familiar faces, vaguely recalling a number of the men’s names from her mother’s failed attempts to make her and Fidelia memorize all the peers in Debrett’s.
It was as if she and Jasper were wearing magnets. Within minutes of Lady Jane Coswold excusing herself, men flocked to Jasper to wrangle an introduction to Frankie. Madam Margaret took up a chair nearby as Frankie’s gloved hand was taken and kissed over and over.
During the next hour, Frankie was told her eyes were beautiful, her hair spun of the same gold as her gown, and that her complexion was as smooth as porcelain. Frankie smiled and nodded, and reflected that yesterday not a single one of these men would have noticed her, much less thought her eyes were “as blue as Neptune’s lonely heart”—whatever that meant. It was as if her perceived wealth gave her plain looks a sudden glow. The son of an earl, a viscount, and two barons clustered around her, their breath hot with tea and their smiles disingenuous.
Meanwhile, Jasper fended off his own crowd of debutants, ambitious mamas, and lonely widows. At one point Frankie spotted him crowded by three young ladies with the exact same shade of copper-colored hair, giving them away as sisters. He met her gaze over the tops of their heads and gave her a look so smoldering that she immediately thrust her fan in front of her face and furtively glanced around to make sure no one else had noticed. She returned her attention to one of the barons, who had not ceased speaking for the past ten minutes, and she smiled woodenly, all while keenly aware of Jasper’s presence sucking the air out of the room.
She did her best to keep up her end of the conversation while discreetly assessing the other men in the room. Her gaze landed on Lord Quincy, a thin man with bulging eyes and tufts of white hair climbing out of his ears. He was rumored to be in the market for a wife, as his fifth wife had recently died in childbirth. He had fourteen children, all of them girls, and bred his wives until they expired in an attempt to give him a male heir. He had great, public scorn for the female sex. Could he be behind the Dowry Thieves?
Then there was Mr. Albert Stephens, who had reportedly blown through his inheritance in six months flat. His father would only pledge him more funds if he found a wife. So far Mr. Stephens had had no luck, as he was a cruel man who’d once beat his own horse to death. If the ringleader behind the Dowry Thieves required a fee for his services, then Mr. Albert Stephens had the motive—but did he have the intelligence?
Standing beside Mr. Stephens was Lady Evelyn Barker and her father, the Earl of Elmsdale. While Elmsdale, a conservative Tory, debated Mr. Stephens, Lady Evelyn skewered Frankie with hateful looks.
“Do you enjoy poetry, Miss Turner?” A newcomer at her elbow interrupted her thoughts with a grating, nasally voice. He was tall and gangly, with sallow skin and thin hair, and wore a crushed velvet coat that had gone out of style nearly a decade ago.
“I apologize, I do not—”
“I beg your forgiveness. Of course you would not recognize me; you were but a child when I saw you last. I am a very distant cousin of your father’s. The name is Mr. Lyle Farthins.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Farthins.” She vaguely recalled the Farthins name in her family tree. “Are you enjoying the gathering?”
“I am now that I have met you.”
Frankie stared blankly for a moment before realizing that was supposed to flatter her. “Oh, er—you are too kind.”
“It is impossible to overcompliment a flower.”
Why did everyone keep comparing her to jewels and flowers? There were far more interesting things one could compare a woman to, like a mathematics equation. Now that would be some compliment. “Are you reading a poem tonight, Mr. Farthins?”
He gave a rusty laugh. “Now it is you who flatters me.”
She hadn’t meant to.
“Alas, I do not have the heart of an artist, although as I stand here looking at you, I feel as if I could become one.”
Frankie tried not to groan. “I do not care for poetry myself. I am much more interested in mathematics.”
The somewhat handsome Lord Wilson, who stood crowded around them, laughed uproariously. When Frankie frowned, he said, “But of course you jest, Miss Turner. It is common knowledge that women are more suited to the delicate disciplines: hostessing, art, music, and the like.”
Frankie pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I must respectfully disagree, Lord Wilson. Women are just as capable, if not more so, as men are in the execution of the scientific disciplines. They have much to contribute. I would go so far as to say that society is being held back from advancement by the exclusion of women in the scientific and mathematics communities.”
Several more men joined the conversation, and the room began to quiet. Frankie’s heart was pounding in her chest, not because she was ashamed of what she was saying, but because she was unused to such an audience.
“Surely you do not mean to imply that women have equally calculating minds as men?” Mr. Farthins gave her a patronizing smile that set her teeth on edge.
“You are right, I do not mean to imply it. I am saying it outright.”