The Bachelor List Page 4

  “I thought it might be something like that.”

  “And are you in the market for a wife?” she queried before she could stop herself.

  He took two glasses of champagne from a tray proffered by a footman and handed one to Constance. He caught sight of the lanky youth out of the corner of his eye. The boy had halted a few yards off with a refilled glass and a nonplussed air.

  “I've never given it much thought,” Max answered finally. “Are you in the market for a husband, Miss Duncan?”

  “I suppose one impertinent question deserves another,” she responded after a second's hesitation.

  “And one honest answer deserves the same.” He regarded her over the lip of his champagne glass.

  Constance could not deny the truth of this. She had foolishly started the conversation and she had to finish it. She could not bear to continue such a potentially painful topic. She said carelessly with an air of dismissal, “Let's put it this way, Mr. Ensor. I am not looking for a husband, but I'm not actively against the idea.”

  “Ah.” He nodded slowly. “And are your sisters of the same opinion?”

  “I wouldn't presume to speak for them,” she retorted.

  “No . . . well, perhaps that's laudable. It strikes me as unusual, though, to find three attractive sisters . . .” He let the sentence fade as if aware that he was about to say something offensive. It had occurred to him that this particular reader of The Mayfair Lady might well share that paper's political opinions.

  Constance took a sip of champagne. “Three sisters happily facing the prospect of a husbandless future, you mean.” Her voice was perfectly calm and even, but her spirit was dancing at the prospect of a battle. This was much safer ground.

  “Spinsterhood is not generally a sought-after goal among women of your age.” He shrugged with seeming carelessness, although he was very curious now to see what he could flush out about Constance Duncan's views. “Women are not equipped to manage their own affairs. Indeed, I would say it's most unsuitable for them to do so.”

  For a moment Constance, despite her delight in the challenge, was breathless. Of all the presumptuous, pompous, arrogant male statements. Utterly unequivocal, without entertaining the slightest possibility of there being another opinion on the issue. She stared at him. “Unsuitable?” she demanded, no longer able to pretend nonchalance.

  “Well, yes.” He didn't seem to notice her outrage. “Women are not educated to handle financial matters or business affairs. And that's how it should be. There should be a division of labor. Men take care of the business side of life and women are best suited to household management, nursery matters, and . . .” Here he laughed. “Amusing themselves, of course.”

  “And cosseting their husbands . . . waiting upon them hand and foot, of course,” Constance said, a dangerous light in her eye.

  “It's only reasonable for a man to expect a little pampering in exchange for providing security and all the little comforts women find so necessary to their well-being.”

  The man was beyond the pale. He wasn't worth doing battle with. “I think it's time for the music to begin,” Constance declared. “I see your sister gesturing to you. I imagine she would like your protection during the arias.”

  Max saw the glitter in the dark green eyes and he had the uneasy sensation of being in a cage with a tiger. Perhaps he had gone too far. “I can see we don't share the same opinion,” he said with a placatory smile.

  “How perspicacious of you, Mr. Ensor. Excuse me, I must find my sisters.” She walked off in a swirl of cream silk chiffon, and her dark red hair that had struck him as richly colored but scarcely fiery now seemed to Max to be suddenly aflame.

  Definitely a woman to be handled with care. He pursed his mouth thoughtfully, then went to obey his sister's summons.

  Chapter 3

  Constance seethed throughout the opera singer's performance, oblivious of the soaring perfection as the soprano's glorious voice hit every high note. Her sisters, sitting on either side of her, were acutely aware of her distraction. Prudence gave her a quick sideways glance and saw how tightly Constance's hands were clasped in her lap.

  At the end of the performance Constance remained seated on the little gilt chair, until Chastity nudged her. “Con? Con, it's over.”

  “Oh.” Constance blinked and looked around as if she were awaking from a deep sleep. “It was wonderful, wasn't it?”

  “How would you know?” Prudence asked. “You didn't hear a note.”

  “I most certainly did.” Constance gathered up her evening bag and rose to her feet. “But I've had enough for one evening. Let's make our farewells.”

  “Are you quite well, Con?” Prudence asked with concern.

  “Just a headache,” Constance replied. “Nothing much but I'll be glad of my bed. There's Arabella by the door. We'll catch her before the crowd.” She moved forward swiftly, aiming to reach her hostess before the rest of the guests took their farewells.

  Prudence exchanged a knowing glance with Chastity and followed on her elder sister's heels.

  “Are you leaving so soon, my dear Constance?” Arabella exclaimed. “There's supper in the yellow salon.”

  “I have a slight headache.” Constance touched her brow with a fingertip in emphasis and offered a smile that she hoped was convincingly wan, although she felt remarkably robust. Anger was a great energizer. “But it was a delightful evening, Arabella.”

  “Isn't the singer wonderful, utterly charming? A sublime voice . . . just sublime. I was so fortunate to be able to catch her.” For all the world like a butterfly in a net, Constance thought, but she smilingly agreed.

  They moved away towards the doors to the gallery and the stairs leading to fresh air and escape.

  “Miss Duncan, Miss Prudence, Miss Chastity . . . leaving so soon?” Max Ensor pushed through the crowd towards them. “Allow me to call for your carriage.”

  “There's no need, Mr. Ensor. One of the footmen will call him.” Constance gave him her gloved hand. “I bid you good night.”

  “At least allow me to collect your cloaks, ladies,” he protested, tightening his hold slightly on the silken fingers. He dropped them immediately when their owner gave a sharp tug.

  “There's not the slightest need, I assure you,” Constance said firmly. “I know you're looking forward to your supper.”

  “If you know that, you know more than I do,” he said. “I've never felt less like supper.”

  “Oh.” Constance was silenced, then repeated firmly, “Well, I bid you good night.” And turned away towards the head of the stairs.

  “I trust I may call upon you ladies?” Max said, addressing himself to Prudence since he didn't feel inclined to talk to Constance's rapidly retreating back.

  “Of course,” Prudence said. “We are At Home on Wednesdays from three o'clock. We should be delighted to see you.” She gave him her hand and a somewhat speculative stare, before following her sisters.

  “So what was all that about?” Prudence asked as she and her sisters stood on the steps outside waiting for Cobham.

  “All what?” Constance scanned the street intently.

  “You know perfectly well. Why were you giving Max Ensor the frozen treatment?”

  “I wasn't. I don't know him so I'm hardly going to treat him like a bosom friend.” She glanced at her sisters and read their skeptical looks. “If you must know, he's the most arrogant, pompous, stuffed shirt of a man it's been my misfortune to talk to.”

  “Oh, sounds interesting!” Chastity said. “Whatever did he say?”

  Constance didn't reply until they were in the carriage, and then she treated her sisters to a succinct account of her conversation with the Right Honorable Max Ensor.

  “Mother would have made short work of him,” Chastity observed with a chuckle.

  “We'll have some fun with him if he comes to an At Home,” Prudence said, her eyes gleaming under the streetlamps. “We'll ambush him.”

  “You didn't inv
ite him, did you?” Constance asked.

  “He asked if he could call.”

  Constance grimaced, then said, “Well, if he comes, he can expect a less than enthusiastic welcome.”

  “Oh, I think we should try to convert him,” Chastity said. “Mother would have done.”

  “I don't think he's worth the effort,” Constance responded. “Not even Mother wasted her time on lost causes.”

  “He is a Member of Parliament,” Prudence pointed out. “Just think how useful a convert he could be.”

  Constance regarded her sisters, a light dawning in her eyes. “How right you are,” she said slowly. “The Right Honorable Member for Southwold is about to discover that there are some women in London society who don't quite fit his stereotypes. Perhaps he'll come this Wednesday.”

  “You don't really have a headache, do you?” Chastity asked.

  “It was a headache called Max Ensor,” Constance responded. “And curiously it has quite gone away.”

  “Good,” Chastity said. “Because we need to draft the advertisement for the Go-Between, and check the final layout for next month's issue. I have to take it to the printer tomorrow morning.”

  “We'll do it before we go to bed.”

  The barouche drew up outside the house on Manchester Square and Jenkins had opened the door before Constance could get out her key. “You must have seen us coming,” she said.

  “I was watching out for you, Miss Con.”

  “Is Lord Duncan in?” Prudence drew off her gloves as she stepped into the hall.

  “No, Miss Prue. He went to his club. He said there was no need to wait up for him.”

  The sisters nodded. It was not unusual for their father to return to the house in the early hours of the morning, and sometimes not until dawn. Where he spent the night was not a question they cared to examine.

  “You had a pleasant evening?” Jenkins closed the heavy front door.

  “Very, thank you,” Prudence replied with a quick grin directed at her sisters. “At least Chas and I did. Not so sure about Con. Good night, Jenkins.”

  “Good night, Miss Prue.” He watched them up the stairs and then extinguished all but one small lamp on a console table before taking himself off to his pantry in the basement.

  The small square sitting room at the front of the house on the second floor had been Lady Duncan's private parlor and was now used exclusively by the sisters. It had a pleasantly faded, lived-in air. The furniture was worn, the colors of the upholstery and curtains bleached by years of sunlight and laundering. But there were bowls of fresh flowers on every surface amid a cheerful clutter of books, magazines, and sewing materials. As usual, a pan of milk stood on the sideboard ready to be heated over a small spirit stove.

  “Ham sandwiches tonight, and Mrs. Hudson has made her luscious macaroons again,” Chastity announced with satisfaction, peering beneath a linen cloth on a tray beside the milk. She struck a match and lit the flame beneath the milk. “While that's heating we'll look at the draft pages. I think I put them on the secretaire.” She rummaged among a stack of papers on the overcrowded desk. “Ah, here they are.”

  Constance tossed her cloak over the back of the chesterfield and perched on one of the broad arms. She took the sheets her sister handed her and glanced through them. “You know what might be fun . . .”

  “No,” Prudence supplied the required answer.

  “Why don't we write a review of tonight's performance? There were . . . what? Less than a hundred people there. Not a grand crush but everyone who is anyone in these circles was there, and the only newcomer that I could see was Max Ensor. And as Letitia's brother and an MP he's hardly an unknown quantity.” She chuckled. “It'll really set the cat among the pigeons. It will have to have been written by a guest. Can you imagine the speculation about who could possibly have written it?”

  “Great publicity,” Prudence said, turning the heat down under the milk. “The details of a private party are much harder to get hold of than those of a Society wedding or . . . or, say, a grand ball. There are always gate-crashers and newspeople at those do's anyway. But tonight was very different.”

  “People will be desperate to get their hands on a copy,” Chastity said. “We should double the print order, I think. Who's going to write it?”

  “I will,” Constance stated. She had a tiny smile on her lips that hinted of secrets. “I have it roughed out in my head already.”

  “I'm not sure you can be totally accurate when it comes to the arias,” Prudence observed. “You weren't listening.”

  Constance waved a dismissive hand. “I'm only going to touch on that anyway. That's not what's going to interest people. It'll be the intimate details, the kinds of things only an insider could have gathered.”

  Chastity regarded her thoughtfully. “You've got something up your sleeve.”

  “Maybe,” her eldest sister agreed with another little smile. “Let's get on with this Go-Between advertisement.”

  “Do you want chocolate in your milk, Chas?” Prudence broke a square off a bar of chocolate.

  “Yes, please.”

  “How can you two drink that sickly stuff?” Constance said. “I shall have some cognac instead.”

  “Each to his own.” Prudence dropped two squares of chocolate into the saucepan, stirring it with a wooden spoon. A few minutes later she brought two wide-mouthed cups filled with dark, fragrant liquid over to the sofa, where Chastity was laying out the sheets of closely written paper.

  Constance poured a small measure of cognac into a glass, took a ham sandwich, and then carried the plate over, holding the sandwich in her mouth. She set the plate down on the low table in front of the sofa and reflectively chewed her sandwich. “Why don't we have a banner headline for the advertisement? Just under the title. It'll draw the most attention.”

  Chastity took a clean sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil. “What shall we say?”

  “Are you lonely? Craving companionship? Do you spend long evenings with your own thoughts?” Prudence began, helping herself to a sandwich. “Can't find the right match . . .”

  “You need a Go-Between.” Constance chimed in. “The Go-Between service will help you find your match. We guarantee discretion; we guarantee security. All inquiries personally vetted and personally answered. Send us your—”

  “Not so fast,” Chastity protested. “I'm trying to write this down.” She paused to drink some of her hot chocolate.

  Her sisters waited patiently until she took up the pencil again. “All right. Send us your . . .” She looked up inquiringly. “Your what? Requirements. No, that sounds a bit clinical.”

  “Desires?” suggested Prudence, settling her glasses more securely on her nose.

  Constance choked on her sandwich. “We're not advertising a brothel, Prue.”

  Prudence grinned. “I suppose it might sound a little suspect.”

  “How about something really straightforward? Send us a brief account of yourself and a description of the person you would like to meet. We will do the rest.” Chastity scribbled fiercely as she spoke.

  “Bravo, Chas. That's perfect.” Constance applauded. “Now we need an address.”

  “Why don't we ask Jenkins if his sister would mind getting this mail? She has a corner shop in Kensington and I know she acts as a poste restante for people in the neighborhood who don't have a proper address for whatever reason. It would be easy enough to fetch it from her.” Prudence brought over the basket of macaroons. “Jenkins is on our side in all of this, after all.”

  “Just as he was on Mother's.” Chastity took a macaroon and bit into its gooey depths with a little murmur of pleasure. “He used to run her errands for The Mayfair Lady if one of us couldn't do it.”

  “I'll just run down and ask him. He won't be in bed yet.” Constance went to the door. “That way we can get this finished tonight.”

  Jenkins, ensconced in the butler's pantry with a tankard of ale, listened to the request with his customar
y imperturbability. “I'm sure my sister will be agreeable, Miss Con,” he said, when she'd finished her explanation. “I'll be seeing her on Sunday evening, as usual. I'll explain the situation to her then. You'll be wanting the address.” He took a sheet of paper from the dresser and wrote in his meticulous hand.

  “That's wonderful, Jenkins,” Constance said warmly as she took the paper. “Thank you so much.”

  “No trouble at all, Miss Con.”

  Constance smiled, bade him good night, and hurried back upstairs to the parlor. “That's all settled,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

  “Did he think it was a strange request?” Chastity asked.

  “Not particularly. He's used to the eccentricities of this family,” Constance replied with a grin. “Here's the address.” She handed them a scrap of paper. “Now, I'm going to write my piece about this evening while you two finalize the layout.” She sat down at the secretaire, pushed aside a toppling pile of papers, and took up her pen.

  Her sisters settled companionably to their task while their sister scribbled behind them. It was the usual division of labor, since Constance, as the most fluent writer of the three, penned the majority of the longer articles.

  “I've had another idea,” Chastity said suddenly. “Rather on the same lines. Why don't we provide a personal column . . . you know, if someone has a problem they write in and ask for advice. Then we publish the letters and give advice.”

  Constance looked up from her work. “I don't see myself giving advice,” she said. “I have enough trouble organizing my own life.”

  “That's because it takes you forever to make up your mind,” Prudence said. “You always see both sides of every question, and then a few extraneous aspects as well.”

  “'Tis true,” Constance agreed with a mock sigh. “At least until I do finally make a decision. Then I'm constant as the evening star.”

  “That is also true,” Prudence conceded. “I'm not good at dispensing advice either, most of the time I can't see what people are worrying about. I think Chas should do that column, she's so intuitive.”