“Oh.” There was a pause, she and Emma exchanged glances, then she took Prudence by the arm and ushered her into the parlor. “Come and sit down, my girl. You need a glass of my damson gin.”
“No, no,” Emma interjected as Prudence sat down in her former place at one end of the horsehair settee, “tea’s the only thing at a time like this. She needs a stimulant.”
Mrs. Morris was a bit doubtful, but Emma was firm. She rang the bell for the maid. “Tea, Dorcas, if you please,” she said when the maid appeared a few moments later, and as Dorcas departed to comply with this request, Emma sat down beside Prudence on the settee.
“Maria’s not in, I suppose?” Prudence asked Mrs. Morris as the landlady took her usual place in the chintz-covered chair on the opposite side of the tea table.
“At this hour of the morning? No, my dear. She’s at the bakery, of course. She’s eating in this evening, though, so I know she’ll be home before dinnertime.”
“Do you know if she has found another flat-mate yet?”
“No, but—” Mrs. Morris gave her a puzzled look. “Now, why would you be wanting to know that? Surely, you’re not wanting to move back here into your old rooms? But my dear,” she added when Prudence nodded, “you don’t want to live here. You’re an heiress now.”
“I won’t be an heiress for long. Since I’m not marrying, I won’t fulfill the terms of the will, and the money will be forfeit.”
The landlady gave her an indulgent smile. “That’s a broken heart talking, I think. You wait, my girl, and see how things are in a month or two. You’ll change your mind or you and your duke will patch things up.”
“No, we won’t, and I won’t change my mind!” she said more sharply than she’d intended. At Mrs. Morris’s startled look, she sighed and pressed four fingers to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s only that there is no possibility of reconciliation.”
“Even so,” Emma murmured beside her, “are you certain moving back into your old rooms is a good idea?”
Prudence lifted her head and turned to her friend, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’ve been away, I know, but stories of your inheritance and your engagement to St. Cyres have been in all the papers, even the ones on the Continent. The London papers are filled with stories about you.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said wearily. “I stopped reading newspapers ages ago. But what does that have to do with me moving back into my old rooms?”
“The breaking of your engagement will also be reported. I fear you will be hounded by the London journalists if you stay here. Not those who work for Marlowe Publishing, of course,” she added at once. “We can prevent that. But journalists from other papers will not be so considerate, I fear. If you stay here, there is nothing to prevent them from accosting you the moment you walk out the door. The lodging house offers much less protection for you than a hotel.”
“I don’t want to stay at a hotel. I’ve had enough of hotels and inns to last a lifetime. I just want to come back home.”
“But Prudence,” Mrs. Morris put in, “you’re an heiress now. Staying here, you would have no proper chaperone. Wouldn’t it be best if you continued to stay with your aunt and uncle? If not at the Savoy, perhaps you should return with them to Sussex for a bit?”
“No,” she said decidedly. “Staying with my aunt and uncle is not possible. I don’t need a chaperone, anyway, since I have no intention of going out into society. Please,” she added as the landlady started to speak again, “I don’t want to argue about it.”
Emma put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “What if you came to stay with me?” she asked. “Our house in Hanover Square offers you a measure of protection you couldn’t find here. I’m sure Harry would agree, although his competitors will certainly accuse him of hiding you away for the exclusive benefit of his own newspapers, but he won’t care about that. And,” she added, “I can act as your chaperone, if it should be necessary. You can return to Little Russell Street once the furor dies down and the journalists lose interest in you. A few months, perhaps.”
“A few months?” Prudence was dismayed. “Will it take that long?”
“I don’t know, but having worked for Marlowe Publishing, I have some experience with this sort of thing, and I suspect the London journalists will be watching you like cats around a mouse hole for quite some time.”
Prudence groaned. “Oh, I wish everything could just return to the way it was before.”
Emma gave her a look of compassion. “One can never go back to the way things were, Pru. One can only go forward.”
Prudence tried to resign herself to that inevitable fact. After all, she told herself, if going back meant reliving what had happened to her during the past two days, she’d just as soon pass it by. Even an uncertain future was better than a broken heart.
“Hard lines, my friend.” Weston gestured to the bottle of port as the waiter at Brooks’s decanted it for them. “You should have told me sooner. We’ll need something stronger than port if we’re going to get drunk.”
“I don’t want to get drunk.” He looked at the waiter who was preparing to remove the empty container from the table. “Leave the bottle, too.”
Although the waiter frowned in bewilderment, he complied and departed.
“You don’t want to get drunk?” Weston eyed him dubiously. “The newspapers are saying your heiress jilted you. You’ve told me creditors will be swooping down on you within a few days to take everything you’ve got left. And now you’ve dragged me down to my club, but you don’t want to get drunk? God, St. Cyres, you’ve a stronger character than I. I’d be three parts pissed already, if I were in your shoes.”
“Thank you, Wes. Your optimistic view of my situation cheers me enormously.”
“Sorry. It’s just that nothing ever seems to rattle you.”
Rhys didn’t reply, but he wondered what Wes would have said had he seen him two days ago by the lake, falling apart.
“No doubt,” the baron went on, “you’ve another heiress waiting in the wings.”
He took a sip of port. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”
“Got it!” Weston snapped his fingers. “You want to know if I’m acquainted with any heiresses, now that the Abernathy girl is out of reach.”
“No.”
Wes lifted his hands, giving it up. “Then why are we here?”
“I believe Viscount Marlowe is a friend of yours?”
“Marlowe?” Wes asked in lively surprise at the change of subject. “Yes, we’re friends. Why do you ask?”
“I heard he’s returned from Italy.”
“Yes, I believe he is back from his honeymoon, although I’ve not seen him myself. Why do you bring up Marlowe?”
Instead of answering, Rhys gestured to the bottle beside the decanter on the table. “I believe Graham’s is his favorite port?”
“I think so, but I’m all at sea. Why this interest in Marlowe and his favorite port? Devil take it, how do you even know what port he drinks? Fane, I suppose.”
Rhys hadn’t been able to assign that particular task to Fane, but he had managed to obtain the information on his own. “I want you to introduce me to Marlowe.”
“I’d be happy to, but only if you satisfy my curiosity and tell me why.”
“It’s a matter of business.”
“Business?” Wes began to laugh. “And you said you don’t have another heiress in mind.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Marlowe has two unmarried sisters, and since he’s rolling in money, their dowries are quite substantial, but with your reputation, he wouldn’t let you within ten yards of either Phoebe or Vivian. He’s very protective of his sisters.”
“I’m not interested in either of the Marlowe girls,” Rhys cut him off impatiently. “I am going to marry Prudence Abernathy.”
Wes leaned forward in his chair. “The engagement’s broken off,” he reminded him.
“Just so. That’s why I want to meet with Marlowe.”
“You’re being terribly mysterious, my friend, but if you wish to meet Marlowe, here’s your chance. He’s just come in.” Wes stood up and left the table, crossing the room to greet a tall, dark-haired man who looked to be a few years older than Rhys.
As the pair came toward the table, Rhys stood up, and as they were introduced, he couldn’t help noticing, with some amusement, Marlowe’s wary expression.
“Join us, Marlowe?” He pulled out a third chair and gestured to the bottle on the table. “We’ve an excellent port, a Graham’s 1862, if you care for a drink.”
“Graham’s ’sixty-two?” Marlowe glanced at the decanter and the bottle beside it. “A fine vintage,” he murmured. “One of my favorites.”
“Is it indeed?” Rhys pretended surprise. “Then join us, please, and have a drink.”