Chapter One
TWO WEEKS LATER.
“As you may recall from our previous seven hundred twelve conversations about it, there are rules here, and they are different than the rules at Hentrose Park,” Beckett said, looking up from yesterday’s edition of the London Times.
While being in London meant learning the news before it became irrelevant, there were times he preferred not to know some of the lunacy at all.
The girl beside him, sitting up on her knees with her face plastered against the coach’s previously pristine window, giggled.
“That man is wearing at least seventeen hats.” Lady Rebecca Raines, aged nine, jabbed her finger against the glass.
“Perhaps twenty. I would like to be able to do that. Wear all my bonnets at once.”
“What was I reminding you about? Oh, yes. Rules. This is London,” Beckett resumed.
“A very large pond of very odd ducks. For instance, a man who sells hats may choose to wear them all on his head rather than put out the money to purchase a cart for carrying them. You, Cricket, do not disturb said man and his hats unless you intend to purchase one. Nor do you request the bottommost hat unless you intend to purchase all of them.”
Rebecca turned her head to grin at him. “That’s not a rule, Papa.”
“It’s a matter of politeness. A rule is me telling you that you are not to venture out the front door of Raines House without either myself or Mrs. Brubbins accompanying you.”
“What about the rear door?”
“The rear door leads to a small garden. You may roam about there as you choose. You may not go beyond the walls without either myself or Mrs. Brubbins accompanying you.”
“What about the servants’ door?”
Folding the newspaper in half, he flicked it at her backside. “Incorrigible chit.”
With a laugh she turned and sat down on the coach’s seat. “Thank you for finally letting me join you,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, a proper young lady now. “I’ve wanted to visit London forever.”
He lifted an eyebrow. The understated enthusiasm of the young. “Yes, I recall you mentioning that once or twice.” Or a hundred thousand times.
“Will you take me to the museum?”
“Yes. And the menagerie.”
She kicked her heels against the polished wood holding up the forward-facing seat of the coach. “There are so many people. Do you know them all?”
“Only all the people in Mayfair.” Or a large percentage of them, anyway. At least he had at one time.
“I want to meet everyone. Oh, do they know who I am? I think I want to introduce myself as the grand Lady Rebecca Raines.” She mimed an overelaborate curtsy.
“I’d advise against calling yourself ‘grand’; that’s for others to decide.”
She nodded. “That’s good advice, Papa.”
“Thank you. And now I advise you to take a nap,” he said, feigning a yawn as he glanced outside. “It’ll be at least an hour before we reach Grosvenor Street.”
“An hour? That’s forever!”
“It’s already been three days. What’s another few minutes, Cricket?”
“I’ll be ten before we get there.”
Beckett grinned. “That’s a shame. The Season will be well over by September. And clearly I should have brought another book or two with me in anticipation of a five-month-long coach ride.”
“And more sweets and bisc—”
“My lord?” Robin, his coach driver, called, knocking on the roof. “You asked to be informed when we reached Grosvenor Street.”
“What? You were teasing!” With a squeal, Rebecca jumped for the window again. “Which side of the street are we?”
“This one,” he said, sliding away from that window to make room for her. “There’s a very large willow tree in front of the morning-room window, and a wrought-iron gate that will hopefully be open. Oh, and yellow roses in large urns on either side of the front door.”
“Yellow roses,” she muttered. “Willow tree. Everyone has a gate. Is that … No, those are shrubberies by the door. Oh, they’re shaped like rabbits.”
“Another rule: The garden gates remain closed. You are not to go into a neighbor’s garden without first being invited. Not even if there are rabbits. And even then, not without Mrs. Brubbins or myself knowing about and approving of the adventure.”
“But Nelly and I were trying to catch the white one in her garden,” she said, still pressed against the window. “And she’s my friend.”
“Yes, and Mrs. Brubbins and I thought you were where?” He held a hand to his ear.
Sighing, she glanced back at him. “You thought I was in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Harley bake biscuits.”
“And what did I do when you weren’t in the kitchen with Mrs. Harley baking biscuits?”
“You lost ten years off your life, had an apoplexy, and all of your hair turned gray.”
“Precisely.”
“Except your hair didn’t turn gray, because it’s still black.”
“Shoe polish.”
She snorted. “Papa.”
“Very well, but the other things did happen, and that’s the point. No off-property expeditions without prior permission from either Mrs. Brubbins or myself.”
“You make London sound very dangerous, but I think it’s exciting.”
“It is exciting, and it most definitely is dangerous. And the entirety of my heart rests on you being safe. So tell me you’ve listened, Rebecca, and that you agree to the rules I’ve presented. And acknowledge that there will be more rules to follow.”
Twisting around on her knees, she stuck out her right hand. “I have listened, Papa, and I agree to the rules. May I make a rule that Grandmama doesn’t get to pinch my cheeks?”
“No, you may not.” He shook hands with her. “I will mention to her that she has very strong fingers, probably from wagging them so often at me when I was your age. And feel free to yell ‘ouch’ whenever she becomes too exuberant.”
He actually thought it more likely the dowager marchioness’s penchant for cheek pinching came from her desire to remind a youngster who was in charge, but Georgiana Raines did have the devil of a strong grip.
His own cheeks still ached when he thought about it.
And now he and Rebecca would be residing less than a quarter mile away from her all Season. The stuff of nightmares.
Previously when he’d come to London during the Season he’d made a point of returning to Lincolnshire and Hentrose Park as often as he could, which in addition to giving him time with his daughter, had had the additional benefit of aiding him in avoiding a great many soirees, dinners, and the eligible females being shoved at him by his mother.
This summer he would be here for the duration, and that had been another reason for deciding he would make the acquaintance of Lady Pauline Grenedy.
If he rejected her out of hand, there would be others.
So many others. And however little he trusted his mother’s machinations, she did genuinely care about the family’s reputation and lineage.
Hopefully in this instance his need for a mother for Rebecca meshed with the dowager marchioness’s obsession.
“Dash it, are you certain you told me the correct side of the street?” Rebecca asked, her face glued to the glass again.
“Yes. Keep looking.”
“I see three girls with their governess. They have … Oh, they have a puppy! It’s so adorable! Papa, are you listening?”
“No. I’m asleep. And—” Beckett feigned a sneeze. “Oh, blast it all. I’m allergic to dogs.”
His daughter shouted a laugh. “You are not! The—I see it! A giant willow tree, yellow roses, and an open gate! That’s it! We’re here! It’s Raines House!”
“So it is. Don’t spring out like a panther; give the staff a moment to gather. They’re very excited to meet you.”
Jamming her yellow bonnet on her black hair, she jutted her chin at him. “Tie my ribbon.”
He tied a bow beneath her chin, flicked a finger along her cheek, and did his damnedest to hide the deep breath he took.
This wasn’t just Rebecca’s first time coming to London.
It also marked his last as a widowed gentleman.
Well, he supposed he’d still be widowed, but he also meant to be—needed to be—remarried.
Just outside the coach a dozen men and women wearing smiles and black-and-white livery hurried out the door, exactly what he’d wanted to see when Rebecca arrived at Raines House for the first time.
And in five minutes, she’d have them all wound around her little finger, just as she did the staff at Hentrose Park.
“Now, Papa? I see Brubbie!”
“You see who?”
“Mrs. Brubbins, I mean.”
She reached for the door handle, but he put up a hand to stop her. “Just a moment. Am I to introduce you as Lady Becky, or as Lady Rebecca Raines, talented portraitist? Or as Cricket? Or Lady Rebecca?”
“You should have asked me this days ago,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Cricket is for you. Becky is friendlier, I think, but I want to be Lady Becks. That’s what Brubbie—Mrs. Brubbins—calls me. And don’t say ‘portraitist,’ because I want to surprise them with my art.”
Her choice wasn’t at all proper, and her grandmother would point out that Rebecca was too familiar with the servants. As they were her entire world at this point in her life, though, he approved of a certain amount of closeness and familiarity. “Lady Becks it is.”
“Really? That’s my favorite one. Except for Cricket, that is.”
“Yes, yes, I know where I rank in all of this.” He stood as John Butler the butler pulled open the coach’s door and then stepped to the ground. When he turned and held a hand up for Rebecca, she took hold of his fingers and hopped to the cobblestoned street.
“Lord Hentrose. Welcome back to London,” Butler said, bowing. The rest of the line curtsied or bowed behind the butler. “And this must be the much-anticipated Lady Rebecca.”
“It is indeed, Butler.”
His daughter squealed again. “Your name really is Butler? I thought Papa was bamming me.”
The butler bowed again. “John Butler, my lady. And I am very pleased finally to meet you.”
Chuckling, Beckett shook his head. The simple delights. “Rebecca, please meet the finest staff in London. John Butler, staff, I’m pleased to introduce Lady Becks.”