Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes Read online

  Either way, it was not something he was going to consider presently. He peered in the window of the wigmaker’s shop and felt relieved when he saw that she was still there. He hadn’t lost her, yet.

  Now she was taking a seat.

  What?

  Now the proprietress was lifting a heavy pair of scissors. She couldn’t possibly mean to—?

  She did.

  No.

  Big chunks of dark brown curls were lopped off and fell to the floor.

  What the hell was she doing?

  Her hair, her glorious curly hair, had been chopped off haphazardly and she had just a little bob of curls around her head.

  It was not fashionable. It was not done.

  But there was no denying how fetching she looked.

  He watched as the shopkeeper gave her a bonnet and helped secure the ribbons.

  If he hadn’t been staring intently at the doorway, if he hadn’t watched the whole damn thing through the window, he would have missed her when she stepped out a short while later. She looked like a regular lady—except for that daring haircut and genuine smile.

  The newspaper had deemed her wild, unpredictable, rebellious. And now he understood. Alistair continued to watch as she did at least six scandalous things at once—and spent his money, and not on a hired hack to take her back to respectability. There was only one thing to do: continue to follow her.

  11:44 in the morning

  So this was London. The streets were pulsing with the movements of people. So many people pulsing and pushing around her. The air was thick with the dull roar of people talking, of horses and carriages clattering through, of life just happening at a fast speed and a high volume. Then there were the cries of vendors, seeking buyers for their wares.

  “Violets!”

  “Oranges!”

  “Fresh fish!”

  Amelia had no need for fresh fish. She had no need for a posy of violets, either. But there was a girl selling them and she simply seemed far too young to be out alone on the streets, earning her keep by selling something as frivolous and delicate as violets.

  Amelia hovered close to her, wondering. Where did she go at night? Did she have family, friends, or a suitor? For that matter, where did one find fresh flowers in London to sell? And what did she do when the violets were not in bloom?

  “Violets would look so nice with your hair, miss.”

  Amelia smiled, because the girl knew to give her exactly the compliment she needed to hear at that moment. And she bought violets—possibly the last thing she needed at the moment, because she wanted to support this girl. And oh, she had a hundred questions to ask her, but as soon as she paid, the girl was on to the next customer, doling out compliments and extoling the virtues of violets.

  Amelia moved on, knowing that the girl probably didn’t have a place to return to, and certainly nothing so lavish or even comfortable as Durham House. She felt a little something—a pang, perhaps—at running away from such a comfortable residence and existence so she could muck about on the streets. But the thought, or pang, or whatever it was, retreated as quickly as it came, as Amelia’s attentions were captured by the next new thing.

  A similar scene was repeated with a woman selling oranges. A similar scene was almost repeated with one of the mercury women selling gossip sheets—until Amelia saw a cartoon of herself on the cover.

  Oh bloody hell.

  She spun around, determined not to look, and she ended up bumping into a servant girl.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” the girl said.

  “Oh, it’s all right. The fault is mine. I ought to watch where I’m going.”

  Amelia gave one last look over her shoulder at the wretched news rag. She would not spend her last coin—literally—on that rubbish. Thus, she lifted her nose high in the air and marched past. She was in the process of said marching past in a very dignified manner when a very rude person in a terrific hurry bumped into her.

  She stumbled forward and caught herself, and turned to deliver a scathing setdown. Then her heart began to beat hard and fast.

  11:50 in the morning

  First, Alistair pretended to bump into her. Then he pretended not to recognize her.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said gruffly.

  And then he slowed his pace and did a double take, allowing something like dawning recognition to assemble in his features.

  She recognized him immediately.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Finlay-Jones.”

  She smiled at him: such a sweet, artless smile. Already he felt terrible for deceiving her, even though he hadn’t exactly misrepresented himself or behaved in an unbecoming way.

  Yet. The day was young.

  She was his ticket to everything he ever wanted—a way to repay his debts to the baron and maybe, even, a family. He would do well to remember that today.

  “What a coincidence,” he said, smiling, even though it was anything but. “I see you’re enjoying the sights and offerings of London.”

  “Oh yes, I did mean to hire a hack and go home immediately. But there is so much to see. I suppose I got distracted.” She smiled sheepishly.

  “There is much to be distracted by in London.”

  “I’d love to see all of it,” she said enthusiastically. The ton had not gotten to her yet. The aristocracy had not made her jaded, or taught her to sound fashionably bored.

  No wonder they mocked her.

  Even he felt taken aback in the face of such genuine enthusiasm. From a young age he’d been made aware that he was different and didn’t quite fit in; from a young age he’d made every effort to act like the others in an attempt to belong.

  Yet here was a girl who either didn’t know or didn’t care that she was a misfit and she seemed happy.

  Alistair wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the sights yet,” he said, easily, spying an opportunity. “It’s always the first thing most people do when they arrive here.”

  Her American-ness was unspoken between them.

  His foreignness would have been as well, had it not been for his relatively pale skin and very English name.

  “I have not seen the sights. I consider it a great tragedy,” she said.

  “I cannot imagine a greater one,” he agreed. Then, “I don’t know about you but I’m famished. Would you fancy joining me for a quiet breakfast while I persuade you to spend the day seeing all the sights of London?

  He felt like a cad. Like the worst sort of scoundrel. It was an invitation no gentleman would ever issue and no lady would ever accept.

  But he wanted so badly to fit in with high society, to have a sense of belonging and home and forgiveness.

  And she, he could tell, very badly wanted a little adventure.

  She hesitated. Good girl. She should say no. She should run away.

  But he saw the wheels churning in her mind, probably calculating that she was probably already in trouble at home and she had already spent the night with him unscathed. It was just breakfast and she was most likely starving.

  He could see each thought by the expression on her face.

  Lady Amelia Cavendish would be terrible at cards.

  Not that he knew her name.

  “Yes, I’ll join you,” she said, giving him the kind of smile that made him feel utterly certain that fate and fortune changed their plans for him. He was back in their good graces.

  “You know, I don’t think I ever learned your name,” he remarked, telling what would undoubtedly one of many lies today. He issued a silent prayer to the Lord for forgiveness.

  “Oh! Right.” She bit her lip, pausing thoughtfully. “It is Ame—Miss Amy . . . Dish. Miss Amy Dish.”

  He wanted to burst out laughing. But that would be rude to Miss Amy Dish and would interfere with his plans to woo her. So Alistair grinned and said, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Dish.”

  And it was, truly.

  Noon
r />   Betsey had just returned from the shops to buy some supplies—cosmetics and such—before her mistress awoke after another long night of elegant soirees and such. But she was back now, still breathing hard from the rush, apron pinned on, cap in place, and ready to deliver breakfast to her Miss Randolph, who began each day abed, sipping chocolate and reading the gossip columns.

  Betsey could only dream of lying abed past the first crack of dawn, or having a sip of chocolate or even being able to read well enough to enjoy reading the gossip columns, but there was no use grumbling about what one did or didn’t have, her mum had always said. What mattered was a job well done.

  So Betsey went down to the kitchens to get the silver tray with all the delicious things on it. The chocolate, the pastries. And the newspaper.

  She paused over today’s paper. On the cover was a cartoon that just happened to stop her in her tracks, because Betsey had seen that face just his morning on West Rose Street, after she was dashing out to buy more special ointment for Miss Randolph. But it was ridiculous that a lady of such social standing would be walking down the street alone, and at such an unfashionable hour, too.

  She shook the crazy idea out of her head and thought nothing of it until Miss Randolph saw the front page and said something about it.

  “Oh no she did not,” Miss Randolph gasped.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “It says here that Lady Amelia Cavendish, of the American Cavendishes, fainted at Almack’s and was discovered to be without shoes. How positively heathenish.”

  “I daresay I saw her this morning. Down on West Rose Street.” She couldn’t help it. The sighting of her, there, was just so strange.

  “I’m certain you didn’t. After this shenanigan, the duchess of Durham will lock her up. Or banish her to the country.”

  “No, I swear I did see her. I had gone down to West Rose Street to pick up that ointment you need for your—”

  “We do not mention that.”

  “Anyway, I saw her come out of the wigmaker’s shop and then a bit later I bumped into her and I said excuse me ma’am and she said that’s quite all right and that she ought to watch where she’s going. And I swear it. I saw her. And then I saw her with a man.”

  Miss Randolph’s eyes were wide now.

  “Betsey, tell me everything.”

  Chapter 7

  In which the charade begins in earnest.

  Noon-ish

  Alistair led her past the Bull & Bear and the Queen’s Head, where they might be recognized by debauched lords, refueling after a night of reverie. While it certainly wouldn’t hurt his suit to be seen with her under such scandalously inappropriate circumstances, he had some notion of fair play. Until Death Do You Part was not something to take lightly; he had an idea that they might spend the day together, discreetly, and create some shared memories so that when they met again he wasn’t just another fortune hunter, but one she had shared happy memories with.

  He guided her toward the King’s Arms, which was just on the outskirts of Mayfair. He secured a private parlor for them, just in case.

  He also dashed off a note to Jenkins and had a boy deliver it:

  Come to the King’s Arms urgently. Bring money. Agree with everything I say.

  This morning he had watched as she easily took the last bit of cash he had on hand and spent it on frivolities like an orange and a posy of violets. He only hoped Jenkins arrived before the bill for the meal they were about to enjoy—preferably with money.

  “This is very wrong,” she said, taking a sip of the tea they had ordered that he could not pay for.

  “The tea? Shall we send it back?”

  “No. This.” She gestured to the room at large with a wave of her hand. “We should not be alone together.”

  This was undeniably, absolutely, one-thousand-percent correct.

  But.

  He had to marry. He had to marry her, in fact. And he did not see another way to make this possible without stealing these moments. He didn’t stand a chance otherwise.

  He dropped his voice and said, “I promise you, it will be our secret.”

  “Excellent. Because otherwise,” she said dropping her voice low and leaning in conspiratorially, “we will have to marry. And I hardly even know you.”

  “That is easily remedied. What would you like to know?”

  “Is Alistair Finlay-Jones truly your name?”

  “Yes, it is. I was raised in Berkshire, attended Eton, then Oxford.” He neglected to mention that he had been born in India, arriving in England as a young orphan of eight. Thanks to his English name and lighter skin, the Baron had made an effort to pass him off as purely English, with mixed success. Alistair merely wished for a place where he felt like he belonged, fully.

  “Ah, yes, Berkshire. Not too far from London.” She sipped her tea. “You needn’t look so surprised. Geography is one of the few subjects taught to young girls. And I have a deep and abiding interest in The Rest of The World.”

  “Are you well traveled?”

  “Not nearly as much as I’d like to be. What about yourself?”

  Yes. I have traveled all over Europe and other parts of the world, looking for the feeling I felt when I opened the door to my flat and saw you there.

  Gad, where had that thought come from?

  “I only just returned from my Grand Tour of Europe. Most gents take one year. I took six.”

  “I wish I could take a Grand Tour,” she said wistfully.

  “It’s a wonderful experience,” Alistair said. And it was the truth, even though he often thought such freedom and travel would have been enhanced by knowing one had a home to return to. “But I’ve never been to America. What is it like?”

  “Dangerous,” she said gravely. “Between the wild bears that devour our horses and the constant attacks from native tribes or the dire paucity of luxuries and the deplorable lack of an aristocracy, we live a very mean, wretched existence.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Not at all,” she said with a laugh. “It’s very civilized. Not that anyone here wishes to know that.”

  He was starting to see why the ton was not quite accepting of her. When she spoke there was always a hint of laughter, somehow, even when she was serious. Was she making fun? Or just amused? He didn’t know, but her secret sense of delight made her beautiful.

  “What brought you to England?”

  “My brother—” she started, then stopped abruptly. She took a long sip of tea before replying. “My brother sent me to finishing school here.

  “Why did you return to England after your travels?” she asked.

  Alistair took a moment before replying. Not being a delusional fool, ignorant to the ways of the world and storybooks, he knew that she would eventually learn that his uncle had ordered him to marry one of the Americans. She would inevitably be livid. It was crucial, then, that he stick to the truth as much as possible.

  Even though she had just blatantly lied to him, which, he had to admit, was smart of her. Going around declaring one’s unchaperoned self as the sister to a wealthy duke was not wise.

  He was glad, again, that he had been the one to find her. He had an agenda, yes, but it was a noble one. With him, her virtue and reputation would be safe.

  “My uncle requested my assistance with his . . . business affairs.”

  “That is just a way of saying marriage, is it not?” He spit out his tea in shock and she laughed. “Ha! I’m right. I love it when I am right. And do allow me to guess: you are one of those unrepentant, avowed bachelors who must be dragged to the altar.”

  “Quite the contrary.”

  “How interesting,” she murmured, merely lifting one eyebrow, he noted with a small amount of jealousy. He had never been able to master that.

  It was then that Jenkins interrupted, thank God. He stepped into the room, newspaper in hand; to sip coffee while reading a newspaper was Jenkins’s idea of heaven. And it just so happened that Alistair saw a fam
iliar cartoon on the front page. Off all the news rags in London, Jenkins had brought that newspaper, with the damned cartoon of her on the front.

  “Mr. Finlay-Jones,” he intoned.

  “Oh, hello there, Jenkins! What a surprise to see you here,” Alistair said, for the benefit of the charade, even though it wasn’t exactly a surprise. He rose to greet his valet. “I’d like you to meet Miss Dish. Won’t you join us? We’ll ring for more tea.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Jenkins was clearly dreadfully confused. Alistair pursed his lips in annoyance and tried to give his man A Look.

  “Didn’t you read my note?”

  “Obviously I have done so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Well then,” Alistair said, clapping the man on the back. He may have gotten the note but he hadn’t gotten the note, so to speak, so Alistair cut him off.

  “You must be acting obtuse just to take the piss,” Alistair said. What part of agree with everything I say was confusing? Jenkins was a smart man. He was also excessively morally upright at times.

  Jenkins frowned. “Is ‘take the piss’ really a phrase you wish to say in front of a lady?”

  He turned to Amelia. “I humbly beg your pardon for my unladylike language.”

  She laughed a lovely, genuine laugh and Alistair looked over at his valet with a look that said You see? She’s lovely and we can’t let her get away.

  “Oh please don’t apologize on my account,” Amelia said. “Like most ladies I secretly delight in very coarse and rude language.”

  “Like most ladies?”

  “At least, I hope so. Otherwise I am dreadfully unfashionable.”

  The two gentlemen took seats at the table and Alistair poured a cup of tea for his valet, who was dreadfully confused at what was going on, but certainly disapproving of whatever it was.

  “I doubt it. I wager that you’re tremendously popular.”

  She shrugged and, “Not exactly, but I don’t mind.”

  But he got the impression that perhaps she did mind. She certainly would once she saw what the newspapers were saying about her. And she would see that any second now, because Jenkins, obliviously, had set down the newspaper right next to his plate where anyone could see it.