The Bachelor List Page 2

  “Oh, I shall tear it up and throw it away,” Elizabeth declared, deftly tucking the sheets into her handbag. “Such a scandalous rag, it is.”

  “Quite so,” murmured Chastity with a tiny smile. “The Maguire article is on Page 2. We'll see you at the Beekmans' soirée this evening. They have an opera singer, I understand. From Milan, I believe.”

  “Oh, yes, I shall be there. It's not dear Armitage's cup of tea, but I do so adore singing. So charming.” Elizabeth patted her throat as if preparing to break into an aria.

  The sisters smiled, murmured their farewells to the Member of Parliament for Southwold, bowed again in unison, and left the salon, their heels clicking on the marble floors.

  “How are we going to make any money if you give the broadsheet away?” Prudence demanded as they waited for Constance's hat and umbrella.

  “It's one way to create demand,” Constance pointed out, regarding her somewhat sad-looking hat with a grimace. “I knew the feather would be ruined.” She peered into the mirror as she adjusted the pins. “Perhaps I can replace the feather and keep the hat. What d'you think, Prue?”

  Prudence was diverted by the question that appealed to her highly developed fashion sense. “Silk flowers,” she said. “Helene has some lovely ones. We'll go there tomorrow. Then we can see if she's sold any Mayfair Ladys.”

  “So what did you think of the Right Honorable Gentleman, then?” Constance inquired as they went out onto Piccadilly. She laid gentle stress on Max Ensor's official title as a Member of Parliament. It had stopped raining and the pavements glistened under the feeble rays of the late-afternoon sun.

  “Certainly distinguished, and quite possibly pompous,” Chastity pronounced. “We're bound to meet him if he's Letitia Graham's brother.”

  “Mmm,” murmured Constance, looking up and down the street for a hackney cab. She raised her umbrella and a carriage clattered to the roadside beside them, the horses' wet flanks steaming in the now muggy summer air. “Ten Manchester Square, cabby,” she instructed the coachman as she climbed in, her sisters following.

  If Prudence and Chastity noticed their sister's reluctance to impart her own impressions of Max Ensor, they said nothing.

  Max Ensor gazed thoughtfully after the three sisters as they left Fortnum and Mason. He was convinced now that not only he but also Elizabeth Armitage had been exposed to a degree of gentle mockery. He wondered if Elizabeth had noticed it. Somehow he doubted it. It had been so subtle, he'd almost missed it himself. Just a hint in the voice, a gleam in the eye.

  They were a good-looking trio. Redheads, all three of them, but with subtle variations in the shade that moved from the russet of autumn leaves to cinnamon, and in the case of the one he guessed was the youngest, a most decisive red. All green-eyed too, but again of different shades. He thought the eldest one, Constance, with her russet hair and darkest green eyes was the most striking of the three, but perhaps that was because she was the tallest. Either way, there was something about all three of them that piqued his interest.

  “Are they Lord Duncan's daughters?” he inquired.

  “Yes, their mother died about three years ago.” Elizabeth gave a sympathetic sigh. “So hard for them, poor girls. You'd think they'd all be married by now. Constance must be all of twenty-eight, and I know she's had more than one offer.”

  Tiny frown lines appeared between her well-plucked brows. “In fact, I seem to remember a young man a few years ago . . . some dreadful tragedy. I believe he was killed in the war . . . at Mafeking or one of those unpronounceable places.” She shook her head, briskly dismissing the entire African continent and all its confusions.

  “As for Chastity,” she continued, happy to return to more solid ground. “Well, she must be twenty-six, and she has more suitors than one can count.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice at a conspiratorial volume. “But they took their mother's death very hard, poor girls.” She tutted sorrowfully. “It was very sudden. All over in a matter of weeks. Cancer,” she added. “She just faded away.” She shook her head again and took a cream-laden bite of hazelnut gâteau.

  Max Ensor sipped his tea. “I'm slightly acquainted with the baron. He takes his seat most days in the House of Lords.”

  “Oh, Lord Duncan's most conscientious, I'm sure. Charming man, quite charming. But I can't help feeling he's not doing a father's duty.” Elizabeth dabbed delicately at her rouged mouth with her napkin. “He should insist they marry—well, Constance and Chastity certainly. He can't have three old maids in the family. Prudence is a little different. I'm sure she would be content to stay and look after her father. Such a sensible girl . . . such a pity about the spectacles. They do make a woman look so dull.”

  Dull was not a word Max Ensor, on first acquaintance, would have applied to any one of the three Duncan sisters. And behind her thick lenses he seemed to recall that Miss Prudence had a pair of extremely light and lively green eyes.

  He gave a noncommittal nod and asked, “May I see that broadsheet, ma'am?”

  “It's quite scandalous.” Elizabeth opened her bag again. She lowered her voice. “Of course, everyone's reading it, but no one admits it. I'm sure even Letitia reads it sometimes.” She pushed the folded sheets across the table surreptitiously beneath her flattened palm.

  Max Ensor doubted that his sister, Letitia, read anything other than the handwritten menu sheets presented to her each morning by her cook, but he kept the observation to himself and unfolded the papers.

  The broadsheet was competently printed although he doubted it had been through a major press. The paper was cheap and flimsy and the layout without artistry. He glanced at the table of contents listed at the left-hand side of the top page. His eyebrows lifted. There were two political articles listed, one on the new public house licensing laws and the other on the new twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit for motorcars. Hardly topics to appeal to Mayfair ladies of the Elizabeth Armitage or Letitia Graham ilk, and yet judging by its bold title, the broadsheet was addressing just such a readership.

  His eye was caught by a boxed headline in black type, bolder than any other on the front page. It was a headline in the form of a statement and a question and stood alone in its box, jumping out at the reader with an urgent immediacy. WOMEN TAXPAYERS DEMAND THE VOTE. WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE WOMEN TAXPAYERS THE VOTE?

  “It seems this paper has more on its mind than gossip and fashion,” he observed, tapping a finger against the headline.

  “Oh, that, yes. They're always writing about this suffrage business,” Elizabeth said. “So boring. But every edition has something just like that in a box on the front page. I don't take any notice. Most of us don't.”

  Max frowned. Just who was responsible for this paper? Was it a forum for the women troublemakers who were growing daily more intransigent as they pestered the government with their demand for the vote? The rest of the topics in the paper were more to be expected: an article about the American illustrator Charles Dana Gibson and his idealized drawings of the perfect woman, the Gibson girl; a description of a Society wedding and who attended; a list of coming social events. He glanced idly at the Gibson article, blinked, and began to read. He had expected to see earnest advice to follow the prevailing fashion in order to achieve Gibson-girl perfection, instead he found himself reading an intelligent criticism of women's slavish following of fashions that were almost always dictated by men.

  He looked up. “Who writes this?”

  “Oh, no one knows,” Elizabeth said, reaching out eagerly to take back her prize. “That's what makes it so interesting, of course. It's been around for at least ten years, then there was a short period when it didn't appear, but now it's back and it has a lot more in it.”

  She folded the sheets again. “Such a nuisance that one has to buy it now. Before, there were always copies just lying around in the cloakrooms and on hall tables. But it didn't have quite so many interesting things in it then. It was mostly just the boring political stuff. Women v
oting and that Property Act business. I don't understand any of it. Dear Ambrose takes care of such things.” She gave a little trill of laughter as she tucked the sheets back into her handbag. “Not a suitable subject for ladies.”

  “No, indeed,” Max Ensor agreed with a firm nod. “There's trouble enough in the world without women involving themselves in issues that don't concern them.”

  “Just what dear Ambrose says.” Elizabeth's smile was complacent as she put her hands to her head to check the set of her black taffeta hat from which descended a cascade of white plumes.

  She glanced at the little enameled fob watch pinned to her lapel and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness me, is that the time? I really must be going. Such a charming tea. Thank you so much, Mr. Ensor.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Armitage. I trust I shall see you this evening at the Beekmans' soirée. Letitia has commandeered my escort.” He rose and bowed, handing her her gloves.

  “It will be a charming evening, I'm sure,” Elizabeth declared, smoothing her gloves over her fingers. “Everything is so very charming in London at the moment. Don't you find it so?”

  “Uh . . . charming,” he agreed. He remained on his feet until she had billowed away, then called for the bill, reflecting that charming had to be the most overworked adjective in a Mayfair lady's vocabulary. Letitia used it to describe everything from her young daughter's hair ribbons to the coals in the fireplace and he'd lost count of the number of times it had dropped from Elizabeth Armitage's lips in the last hour.

  However, he would swear that not one of the Honorable Misses Duncan had used it.

  Women taxpayers demand the vote.

  It would be both interesting and enlightening to discover who was behind that newspaper, he reflected, collecting his hat. The government was doing everything in its power to minimize the influence of the fanatical group of headstrong women, and a few foolish men, who were pressing for women's suffrage. But it was hard to control a movement when it went underground, and the true subversives were notoriously difficult to uncover. Unless he was much mistaken, this newspaper directed at the women of Mayfair was as subversive in its intended influence as any publication he'd seen. It would definitely be in the government's interest to draw its teeth. There were a variety of ways of doing that once its editors and writers were identified. And how difficult could it be to uncover them?

  Max Ensor went out into the muggy afternoon, whistling thoughtfully between his teeth as he made his way to Westminster.

  Chapter 2

  So what was this plan of yours, Con?” Prudence poured sherry from the cut-glass decanter on her dressing table into three glasses and handed two of them to her sisters before sitting down in front of the mirror. Her bedroom windows stood open to let in a slight breeze that refreshed the damp air of the long summer evening, and the shouts of children and the thud of cricket ball on bat drifted up from the square garden.

  Constance was repairing the torn lace edging to her evening gloves, setting tiny stitches into the cream silk. She didn't reply until she'd tied the end of the thread and bitten it off. “That'll have to do,” she observed, holding the glove up to the light. “I'm afraid these have seen better days.”

  “You could borrow my spare pair,” Chastity offered from her perch on the worn velvet cushion of a window seat. “They were Mother's, so they really belong to all of us.”

  Constance shook her head. “No, these have a few more evenings left in them.” She laid them down beside her on the bed coverlet. “Do you remember, I was talking about those cards you see in newsagents' windows? People advertising things to sell, puppies or chests of drawers . . . those kinds of thing.”

  Prudence swiveled on the dresser stool, a powder puff in her hand. “And?” she prompted.

  “Well, I went into two newsagents on Baker Street this morning and they each had cards on their doors. Not the usual advertisements but people wanting people.”

  Chastity wrinkled her forehead. “I don't follow.”

  “The first one had a card from a man wanting to find a woman. A widow preferably, he said, around forty with or without children, who wanted to find companionship and security in her later years and would be willing to keep house and see to his creature comforts in exchange . . . I'm not quite sure what the latter would embrace,” she added with a grin.

  “Anyway,” she continued, seeing her sisters' continued puzzlement, “the second one, in the next newsagent's, was—”

  “Oh, I see it!” Chastity interrupted. “A woman who fit the bill, asking for her own companion.”

  “Precisely.” Constance sipped her sherry. “Well, I couldn't resist, of course. There were these two separate cards in two separate windows and never the twain would meet unless someone did something about it.”

  “What did you do?” Prudence dabbed the powder puff on the bridge of her nose where her glasses had pinched the skin.

  “Copied each one of them and paired 'em up, so both newsagents now carry both cards. When the advertisers go to check on their cards, that's what they'll see.” She chuckled. “They can take it from there, I think.”

  “I agree you've done your good deed for the day,” Prudence said. “But I don't see the relevance to our own somewhat dismal affairs.”

  “Don't you think people might pay for a service that puts them in touch with the right mate?” Constance's dark green eyes darted between her sisters, assessing their reactions.

  “You mean like a matchmaker?” Chastity crossed and uncrossed her neat ankles, a habit she had when she was thinking.

  Constance shrugged. “I suppose so. But I thought more like a go-between. Someone who facilitates meetings, carries messages, that sort of thing. Like what I did this morning.”

  “And we'd charge for this service?” Prudence caught up her long russet hair and twisted it into a knot on top of her head.

  “Yes. I thought we could advertise in The Mayfair Lady, have a poste restante address to preserve privacy—”

  “Not to mention our anonymity,” Chastity put in, going over to help Prudence with her hair.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It's certainly an original idea,” Prudence said thoughtfully, holding up tortoiseshell hairpins for her sister. “I vote we give it a try.”

  “Me too,” Chastity agreed. “I'm going to take the next issue to the printer tomorrow. I'll add the advertisement to the back page. Do you think that's the right spot?” She teased a long ringlet out of her sister's elaborately piled hair and stood gazing intently at her handiwork in the mirror.

  “I think it should go on the front page,” Constance stated. “At least for the first couple of times. Just to draw the most attention. What should we call the service? Something eye-catching.” She frowned in thought, tapping her lips with a fingertip.

  “What's wrong with ‘Go-Between'?” asked Chastity. “Since that's what we're offering.”

  “Nothing wrong with it at all. What d'you think, Prue?”

  “I like it.” Prudence turned her head this way and that to get the full effect of her sister's hairdressing efforts. “You're so good with hair, Chas.”

  “Perhaps I should open a salon.” Chastity grinned. “Where's the curling iron? You need to touch up your side ringlets.”

  “Oh, I have it.” Constance stood up. “In my room. I'll fetch it.” She paused on her way out to examine her own reflection in the long swing mirror by the door. Her evening gown of cream silk chiffon fell in rich folds, the hemline brushing her bronze kid shoes. Her bare shoulders rose from the low neckline edged in coffee lace and a broad satin ribbon of the same color spanned an enviably small waist that owed nothing to the restrictions of whalebone.

  “I think the coffee ribbon and lace really do transform this gown,” she said. “I almost don't recognize it myself and this is its third season.”

  “It doesn't seem to matter what you wear, you always look so elegant,” Chastity observed. “You could be in rags and heads would stil
l turn.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Constance whisked out of the room in search of the curling iron.

  “It's true,” Chastity said.

  “Yes, but part of Con's charm is that she doesn't seem to notice it. Once she's dressed and checked herself she never looks in a mirror again for the entire evening.” Prudence put on her glasses and peered at her own reflection. She licked her finger and dampened her eyebrows. “I wonder if Max Ensor will be at the Beekmans' this evening.”

  “Why would you wonder that?” Chastity was curious; her sister rarely made purposeless remarks.

  “No reason, really.” Prudence shrugged. “But Con is looking particularly lovely this evening.”

  “You don't think she was attracted to him, surely?”

  “He is an attractive man with that silvery dark hair and those blue eyes. You must admit he commands attention.”

  “Well, yes, but Con hasn't been seriously interested in any man since Douglas died. She amuses herself a little but her heart's not in it.” A frown crossed Chastity's countenance, a shadow of sorrow that was mirrored in her sister's eyes.

  “Surely she can't grieve forever,” Prudence said after a minute. “She doesn't show her grief at all, not anymore, but it's still there deep down. It's as if she believes no other man could measure up to Douglas.”

  “When I look around at who's on offer, I tend to agree with her,” Chastity observed with unusual tartness.

  Prudence laughed slightly. “You have a point. But I just felt some stirring in the air this afternoon around Mr. Ensor.”

  “Oh, that was just because Con loves teasing Elizabeth Armitage.”

  “Yes, probably,” Prudence agreed, although the tiny frown remained in her eyes. “Dear Elizabeth, such a charming woman.”

  Chastity laughed at this remarkably accurate imitation of the lady's fulsomeness and let the subject of Max Ensor drop. “Is Father dining in this evening?” she inquired. “I'm sure we won't see him at the Beekmans'. Opera singers are not quite in his style.”