Chapter Thirteen
When selecting a bride, choose a biddable woman who defers to your superior opinion in all matters of importance...
T he silence in the hastily procured hackney was deafening. Judging from his stony expression, tight jaw and white knuckles, the Duke was furious. Amelia supposed he had every right to be. His perfect nose was bleeding profusely and there was an angry red swelling just under his cheekbone that would probably turn into a nasty bruise before the day was out. His once pristine shirt was completely ruined and she doubted that there was much hope for his expensively tailored coat either.
But he had surprised her. Not only had he stood up to the gang without any sign of fear, he had held his own admirably and proved himself not to be the soft, pampered aristocrat that she had previously thought him. Although it was also plainly evident he had no idea how to deal with the bloody nose.
‘Tilt your head backwards,’ she offered helpfully as he swiped at it ineffectually with his ruined handkerchief, ‘and pinch the bridge like so.’ Amelia demonstrated the technique on her own face. His serious silver-blue eyes briefly locked on hers and the disgust in them was obvious, but he did as she suggested. Badly.
‘Not like that. You need to try to stop the bleeding.’ She moved over to the opposite bench to sit next to him and applied the necessary pressure. He stared stonily at the ceiling, clearly determined not to speak to her.
‘Thank you for saving me.’ It felt like such a lame expression of gratitude in view of the pasting he had just received on her behalf. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
‘Surely a more pertinent question is what the hell were you doing in that awful place to begin with? Alone. Again.’ The blue eyes were icy-cold and his tone was not much better. Under the circumstances there appeared to be little point in attempting to lie. If Terence had been following her since her arrival, Lovett would have no qualms about appraising his master of all of her comings and goings, and there had been quite a few.
‘I was going to a public meeting.’ Somehow she felt he might find this more palatable than telling him about her regular attendance at the soup kitchen.
‘Do not expect me to believe that rubbish. What sort of a public meeting takes place in that hotbed of criminality? The Rookery is notorious. Every thief, pickpocket and ne’er-do-well in London lives there!’
How typical that he would jump to such a conclusion. ‘The Rookery forms only a small part of Seven Dials. Good people live there too. Poverty does not make them all criminals. Saying such a thing is like blaming all of the French for the behaviour of Napoleon. Most of the residents have no choice but to live there. They cannot afford anything better.’
‘If you are so well informed about the capital’s vilest slum, Miss Mansfield, then why did you not have the good sense to stay out of that deserted alleyway? Or do you think that those ruffians were simply the unfortunate victims of poverty and did not actually mean to threaten you?’ He batted her hand away from his nose and glared at her, his breathing far too laboured for a man in full control of his anger. ‘Have you any idea how much danger you just put yourself in? You were about to be sold into a life of prostitution!’
Now he was simply being dramatic. She would have thought of something to get herself out of the predicament, just as she always had in the past. ‘Usually I am more careful—but today I was a little distracted.’ Amelia had been thinking about him, not that she would openly admit that, and more specifically she had been pondering her extreme reaction to his kiss.
‘Usually?’ His face was a mask of molten fury. ‘You make a habit of coming here?’
‘I admit that I made a grave mistake today but, in my defence, Seven Dials in an area I know well and I have never encountered such a problem before.’ That part was a lie. There had been numerous occasions when she had been in exactly that sort of danger, and worse, but not for a couple of years. It just proved that she had been foolish to become so complacent about her surroundings and she would not be so lax going forward.
‘How, pray tell, do you come to know Seven Dials well?’ He sounded horrified.
For the briefest of moments she actually considered telling him. It would be interesting to see how he absorbed that sorry tale. ‘You already know that I take an interest in the plight of the poor, but to do that effectively it is imperative that I go where they are living in order to help. When I can, I help out at a soup kitchen that is run by the church. They feed some of the most unfortunate souls one hot meal a day. Often it is the only food those people get. Sometimes I attend meetings and lectures run by sympathetic organisations that continue to lobby Parliament for change. That is where I was going today.’
He regarded her with incredulity. ‘You are talking about Radicals , Miss Mansfield! Organised groups of agitators, hell-bent on starting a revolution.’
‘In my opinion, they are unfairly labelled as Radicals. They are good people whose only crime is to seek reasonable political reform.’
‘ Reasonable political reform occurs in Parliament, not in shady taverns and back rooms. If you wish to make your opinions known, you would be better advised to write a stern letter to your Member of Parliament so that he can raise your concerns in the House properly.’
Amelia was momentarily astounded at his ignorance. ‘What utter nonsense! Do you seriously believe any one of those idiots would listen to a letter from a woman? Those fools do not listen to anybody who is not in a position to vote for them. In case you have failed to notice, that means that the majority of the population are of no consequence to them. They do not care about the poor. Nobody in Parliament does.’
This raised his ire further and when he answered it was practically a growl. ‘There is no justification for consorting with Radicals !’
‘What you, in your fine clothes and gilded life, might dismiss as Radical others see as simply good people demanding basic fairness. What is wrong with asking for reasonable wages for an honest day’s labour? Then the poor could at least feed themselves and pay for a roof over their heads. The tragic souls in the soup kitchen all work as hard as they can—yet their masters pay them such a pittance that they are forced to live on charity.’
‘My gilded life!’ He had a habit of only hearing the few words that were particular to him, a trait common to his ilk.
‘Yes, your gilded life. What do you know about being poor? Have you ever been truly hungry? Or not had a comfortable bed for the night or the money to buy what you need? You claim to want to do what is right for all of this nation’s loyal subjects, yet you have no concept of how difficult life is for the poor.’
‘I do not need to have experienced those things to know that they exist. I am a politician. A servant of the people. I make it my business to find out about such things and push for reforms that will alleviate their suffering.’
‘A servant of the people? How very self-sacrificing and noble.’ Amelia found her pointed finger poking him in his chest. The patriarchal arrogance of the man was astounding. ‘You cannot learn about the effects of poverty from reading.’
He grabbed her finger and pushed it away. ‘I have visited the places you speak of. I have been to factories and slums and workhouses.’
Amelia rolled her eyes at that. They were all the same, well-meaning aristocrats who believed themselves to be enlightened and benevolent. ‘Did you go there like this?’ She gestured to his fine clothes sarcastically. ‘I am sure that all of those establishments were very eager to put on a good show for the illustrious Duke of Aveley. I am sure when you visit everything appears splendid. Tell me, what does your world smell like? Fresh paint?’
‘Are you suggesting that I am purposefully misinformed?’
‘I am suggesting that your perspective of poverty is very different from the perspective of those actually suffering from it. I have experienced those problems first-hand and believe me when I tell you that there is nothing enjoyable about being one of the voiceless poor.’
‘Well, you certainly will not be experiencing any such problems in the future. From this point forward, you are expressly forbidden to ever go to Seven Dials or to meet with your revolutionary associates again!’ At her outraged expression he held up his hand imperiously, just as her father always had when he had issued a decree. ‘And you are also forbidden from leaving Aveley House without my aunt or a footman under any circumstances, and if you do I am to be informed beforehand.’
Amelia felt her own temper rise at his dictatorial tone. She was not a child or a chattel. She had been an independent woman since the day her mother had died almost four years ago. That independence might have been foisted upon her, but she was damned if she would surrender it to another titled man just because he said so. ‘You cannot order me around. I answer to no one.’
His big hands curled into fists in his lap and his deep voice was more clipped and aristocratic than she had ever heard it. ‘Might I remind you, Miss Mansfield, that you are employed by my family? Although I am becoming increasingly convinced of the fact that you are wholly unsuitable for the position in which my aunt has entrusted you. If you wish to remain in my aunt’s employ, you will do as I say or, the moment we arrive at Berkeley Square, you will pack your bags and you will leave!’
And there it was. The stark choice that she had been dreading but expecting nevertheless. Could she leave the safety and security of Lady Worsted’s employment and embark on yet another awful journey of toil, hardship and misery? Morality was all well and good, but it did not put food on the table. But a tiny part of her refused to be subservient to another powerful man and his unreasonable demands, no matter what the personal cost. Could she give up trying to change the world for the better and watch others do it from the wings? Probably not. Her quest for a better deal for the poor had given her a reason to carry on at a time when she had been convinced her life was over. It had shaped her. Changed her. Made her stronger. At least on her own she would still have her self-respect.
‘Then I shall leave tonight, Your Grace.’ The rebellious part of her executed a mock bow before she removed herself to the opposite seat again. ‘And gladly so.’ The pompous Duke, his fine house and his fine kisses could all go to hell.
* * *
The rest of the journey seemed interminable as they both sat in outraged brittle silence. To make matters worse, their arrival at Aveley House caused quite a stir. Bennett would not have been surprised if every servant had stood in wide-eyed shock at the sight of him caked in blood and Miss Mansfield’s hair resembling a giant bird’s nest, while the rest of her was bedecked in rags.
His mother immediately rushed towards him, ready to fuss. ‘Oh, good gracious! Bennett! You are injured.’ She began directing maids to fetch witch hazel and salve. Uncle George wisely stepped back. At least one person knew that he was in no mood to be trifled with.
Aunt Augusta regarded both of them very carefully before speaking to Miss Mansfield. ‘Amelia, dear, you look an absolute fright. Let us get you upstairs to repair the damage. Lovett—send up a tray of tea, if you please, and perhaps a tot of brandy would not go amiss.’
As they left, Bennett had the distinct impression that his aunt was not quite as surprised by the state of his companion as everyone else was. There were clearly words that needed to be said there, but not yet. His first port of call was not tea, nor salve. It was Lovett.
‘My study. Now!’ Bennett strode away without a backwards glance, forcing the butler to scurry after him.
‘But, Bennett,’ his mother wailed to his retreating back. ‘You are injured!’
‘Not that injured, my dear.’ Uncle George stepped into the breach. ‘Aside from the blood, he appears to be very hale and hearty. And angry. Give him a little time to calm down and then I am sure he will happily allow you to attend him.’
Too furious to be contained by a chair, Bennett began to pace the floor of his study while his butler entered calmly and closed the door. Only then did he allow the tirade to begin.
‘Apparently, you have been complicit in allowing Miss Mansfield to visit Seven Dials unattended.’
‘Not unattended, Your Grace. The first time she went, I followed her myself. After that she was always accompanied by Terence.’
‘But you still allowed her the freedom to go! She thought she was alone and her visits to that place went unchallenged.’
Lovett stood ramrod-straight and sighed. ‘I was not aware that Miss Mansfield was a prisoner, Your Grace. Had I known, I would have chained her to a banister.’
Sometimes the man’s impertinence was grating. ‘You know full well what I mean, Lovett. If you knew that she was off to such an unsavoury and insalubrious place, you should have informed me.’
‘I do not make a general rule to follow all of the staff during their time off, nor do I ever recall a time when I was required to appraise you of their whereabouts. And, unless Miss Mansfield’s position in this house has changed of late, I had no reason to treat her as anything other than your aunt’s companion. I did , however, ensure that she was always accompanied. Terence was relieved of all other duties and expressly instructed to keep a close eye on her because I had warned her that you would not be impressed by her choice of destination. But I knew full well that those visits were likely to become a regular occurrence the moment I saw her working in the soup kitchen. She did seem very at home there. Fortunately, after I introduced her to the servants’ back staircase, she was surprisingly consistent in her choice of escape route. Terence has become quite familiar with the area now. Up until today, there has been nothing untoward to worry Your Grace about. I also knew that she would become very difficult if she had any hint of the fact that she was being followed. Miss Mansfield gets that glint in her eye.’ Lovett shuddered as he said these final words.
‘ That glint?’
‘Indeed, Your Grace. Miss Mansfield reminds me a great deal of my wife. Mrs Lovett, God bless her, has a similar glint from time to time. Fourteen years of marriage have taught me to be very wary of it, as its arrival usually does not bode well.’