The Bachelor List Read online

  “I can't say it surprises me,” Prudence said. “You've always been passionate about women's suffrage. Not that Chas and I aren't too, but I'm not a great one for soapboxes and joining associations.”

  Constance shook her head. “I didn't think I was either, but something happened there. I felt . . . well . . . inhabited by something suddenly.” She shrugged, helpless to describe the overwhelming sensation any more clearly.

  “Well, whatever you do, don't flaunt the badge,” Prudence said seriously. “If it becomes common knowledge that you've joined the Union, it won't be long before someone puts two and two together with the political views of The Mayfair Lady. And the cat really would be among the pigeons then.”

  “You have a point,” Constance agreed. “I'll be as discreet as I can. I'm sure I can attend meetings and even speak at them in parts of London where no one we know would be seen dead.

  “Anyway,” she continued in the same breath. “Since I was in Kensington, I stopped afterwards at your sister's shop, Jenkins, and picked up the mail. Four letters for The Mayfair Lady.” She took white envelopes from her bag and flourished them gleefully.

  “You haven't opened them?”

  “No, I thought we should open the first ones together. But that's not all,” she said with a significant little nod. “Before I went to Swan and Edgar's I visited all the shops on Bond Street and Oxford Street that had agreed to carry The Mayfair Lady. And guess what?” She paused expectantly, then when her sisters declined to guess, continued, “They had all sold out. Every last copy in every shop. And they all told me they would order three times the quantity next month.”

  “Well, something's working, then,” Prudence said. “Is it Aunt Mabel, or the Go-Between, or your wicked gossip, Con?”

  “It could be the politics,” Constance suggested, then shook her head ruefully. “No, of course it's not. Not yet. But I live in hope. Chas will have to don her heavy veil and widow's weeds and go and collect the proceeds of all those sales. Shall we open these letters? Just quickly to see if they're for the Go-Between or Aunt Mabel.”

  “We don't have any time now,” Prudence, ever practical, said reluctantly. “You need to change, Con, the doorbell will ring any minute now. You may be dressed for a political meeting but it's a bit severe for an At Home.”

  “Do you really think so?” She looked down doubtfully at the soft gray skirt and black, buttoned boots.

  “Yes,” Prudence said definitely.

  Constance yielded as always to her sister's infallible sense of what was appropriate dress for any occasion. “I'll be back before the first guest.”

  “We were thinking that Max Ensor might be ringing the doorbell,” Chastity said with a mischievous glimmer.

  “And it's for him that I should change my dress?” Constance asked, arched eyebrows lifting in ironic punctuation.

  Her sisters made no response. Constance, aware of Jenkins's suddenly rather interested glance, brought the topic to a close. “I'll be no more than ten minutes.” She whisked from the room and hurried upstairs to find a suitable afternoon gown for the sisters' weekly At Home. Not, however, that she intended to make any special effort on the off chance that the Right Honorable Member for Southwold might decide he was in need of a cucumber sandwich and a slice of Mrs. Hudson's Victoria sponge.

  She examined the contents of the wardrobe as she pulled free the narrow tie she wore with her gray and white striped shirt and gray serge skirt. A very businesslike outfit that had, serendipitously, been exactly suitable for her unexpected activities of the morning. She selected a crêpe de chine blouse in pale green and a green and white striped silk skirt with a wide band that accentuated her tiny waist.

  She sat on the dressing stool to fasten the buckles on her heeled green kid shoes and then turned to the mirror. The heavy chignon had loosened and wisps of dark red hair clustered on her forehead. She debated the need to undo the whole elaborate construction and start again, but decided she didn't have the time, instead placing a pair of tortoiseshell combs strategically in the mass piled on top of her head.

  Her face struck her as a trifle flushed so she dusted her cheeks with powder. Her hand hovered over the tube of lipstick, a birthday present from a friend whose natural coloring was rarely seen beneath rouge, powder, and lipstick. The new cosmetics were wonderfully convenient; they could even be carried in a handbag for running repairs. Or could if Constance ever bothered with them. She despised lipstick; it was more trouble than it was worth, leaving smudgy mouth-shaped imprints on glasses and white table napkins. So why was she considering it now? She wasn't trying to impress anyone this afternoon. She snatched her hand away from the lipstick as if the tube was red-hot. She simply intended to put Max Ensor firmly in his place if he darkened her door this afternoon and she could very well do that without artificially reddened lips.

  The doorbell pealed through the quiet house and she jumped to her feet, smoothing down her skirt, checking that the tiny pearl buttons at the high neck of her blouse were all fastened. She hurried to the door and headed for the staircase as Jenkins's dignified tones drifted up from the hall below.

  “Lady Bainbridge, good afternoon,” she said as she corrected her speed and descended the stairs with rather more decorum. She held out her hand to the rigidly corseted dowager in the hall and greeted the two younger women who accompanied her. They both wore spotted veils that they lifted in response to Constance's greeting. Two identical pairs of pale eyes were demurely lowered to the hems of their stiff bombazine gowns, bodices as firmly underpinned as their mother's.

  Lady Bainbridge raised her pince-nez to her nose and subjected Constance to a critical stare. “You look a trifle flushed,” she declared. “I trust there's no fever in the house.”

  “It's a warm afternoon,” Constance said, maintaining her smile with some difficulty. The woman was a distant cousin of Lady Duncan and had been the bane of her life with her constant carping criticism. Her twin daughters were pinched and pale as if they lived in the shadows and rarely saw the light of the day. Their mama considered sunlight ruinous to the complexion.

  Lady Bainbridge sniffed and sailed ahead of Constance into the drawing room, where she scrutinized Prudence and Chastity with the same stare that clearly searched for something wanting. Apparently she failed to find it in either of the sisters' smiling countenances and very correct afternoon attire, because she gave another audible sniff and inclined her head in a stiff bow before turning her attention to the drawing room.

  “You've allowed this room to become sadly shabby, Constance,” she declared. “Your mother always took such pride in her house.”

  Since the sisters could well remember diatribes on the lack of beeswax and silver polish directed at their mother, they allowed this remark to pass over them. Lady Bainbridge seated herself on a sofa, then frowned and began to pick at what Prudence realized was a very faint coffee stain on the upholstered arm.

  “Sit down, girls. Sit down. No need to stand there like gabies.” Her ladyship waved her fan at her daughters and Mary and Martha obediently perched on the edge of the opposing sofa.

  “Tea, Lady Bainbridge?” Chastity brought a cup to their visitor while Jenkins proffered the plate of sandwiches.

  Her ladyship peered at the offering on the platter and waved it away. She accepted the tea, however. Her daughters dutifully declined sandwiches and held their own teacups on their laps.

  “So what's this I hear about Letitia Graham's brother coming to town?” Lady Bainbridge demanded. “I wasn't at Arabella Beekman's soirée last week, but I hear that he was there, causing quite a stir.”

  “We met him briefly,” Chastity said. “Just an exchange of civilities. I didn't notice him causing a stir, did you, Con?”

  “No,” Constance responded with a delicate little frown. “As I recall, he seemed perfectly insignificant, madam.”

  “That's not what I read,” her ladyship declared, sipping her tea.

  “Oh? Did someone write about
him?” Prudence leaned forward, her lively green eyes wide behind her spectacles.

  “Did you receive a letter, Lady Bainbridge?” Chastity asked, her own eyes, more hazel than the pure green of her sisters, fixed with rapt attention upon the visitor.

  “Oh, Mama found a copy of that newspaper,” whispered Mary. “In the ladies' cloakroom in Swan and Edgar's, of all places.”

  “That will do, Mary,” Lady Bainbridge declared. “You're always chattering.”

  The three Duncan sisters exchanged a glance. Mary spoke so rarely, the sound of her voice was a novelty.

  “What newspaper?” inquired Prudence with an innocent smile.

  “Oh, you must have seen it. A disgraceful thing.” Lady Bainbridge set down her cup on the small table beside her. “It's called The Mayfair Lady. A dreadful misnomer if ever I heard one. There's nothing ladylike about it at all.”

  “Lady Letitia Graham and the Right Honorable Mr. Ensor, Miss Duncan.”

  Jenkins's voice from the drawing room door startled them all. No one had heard the front doorbell.

  “Oh, Lady Bainbridge, I do so agree with you,” trilled Letitia, wafting into the drawing room on a cloud of lavender water and a rustle of silk and lace. “It's quite shocking. My poor brother was quite dumbfounded to be the subject of such an article. So embarrassing, don't you agree? When one is but newly come to town, it's no way to be introduced to Society.”

  “Curiously, Letitia, I consider it quite flattering to have attracted such notice.” Max Ensor's voice was as mellow as Constance remembered it, but she could detect an edge to it and guessed with satisfaction that he was not quite as sanguine about his appearance in the pages of The Mayfair Lady as he made out.

  “Mr. Ensor, how nice of you to honor us with your company.” Constance came forward with outstretched hand. Her smile, though polite, was cool, disguising the prickle of anticipation, the slight thrill in her blood at the prospect of engaging in battle with him.

  “The honor is mine, Miss Duncan.” He bowed over her hand.

  “Not attending the Prime Minister's Question Time this afternoon, Mr. Ensor?” Chastity asked brightly.

  “Apparently not, Miss Chastity,” he replied, taking a cup of tea from Jenkins.

  “Oh, but surely as a responsible Member of Parliament, Mr. Ensor, Question Time must be very important,” Constance said. “Will you have a sandwich? Egg and cress or cucumber?” She extended the platter in invitation.

  Max found three pairs of eyes of varying shades of green fixed upon him with smiling attention. But there was more than pleasantry in that attention. He felt a little like a mouse under the intently malicious gaze of a trio of felines. “If there are any questions of earth-shattering importance, you may rest assured that I shall be informed,” he said, to his annoyance hearing a defensive note in the statement. “As it happens I lunched with the Prime Minister and left him in the Members' Lounge less than an hour ago.” He took an egg sandwich.

  “Oh, I see.” Constance's smile remained constant. “You have a direct route to Sir Henry's ear. An unusual honor for a new MP, is it not?”

  Max said nothing. If she intended to make him sound like a boastful coxcomb he wasn't going to play a duet.

  Constance regarded him quizzically. “So I gather you were the focus of a piece in The Mayfair Lady. You found it complimentary?”

  Max looked at the overstuffed sandwich in his hand and regretted his choice. Cucumber was a much tidier filling than mashed egg and strands of cress. “I barely glanced at it, Miss Duncan.”

  “Really? But of course you would have little interest in a women's newspaper. Women are rightly concerned only with trivialities. That is your view, Mr. Ensor, as I recall.” The smile didn't falter; the dark green eyes never left his face.

  He became aware that her sisters had rejoined their other guests on the far side of the drawing room and he was at an acute disadvantage facing this woman who was all armor while he stood there holding two soggy pieces of white bread from which white and yellow interspersed with green strands threatened to tumble to the carpet. He looked for somewhere to put it since he couldn't eat it and conduct any reasonable conversation—or rather, respond credibly and confidently to what was undeniably an attack. He had come prepared to play his own little game but now he realized Miss Duncan had her own basket of tricks. He must have touched a nerve the other evening.

  “Ah, I see you need a plate, Mr. Ensor.” Constance moved to the sideboard and took a bread and butter plate from the stack. “How remiss of me.”

  He suspected it had been an intentional lapse but accepted the plate with relief. “I know nothing of the newspaper, Miss Duncan. You gave Lady Armitage a copy the other week. As you say, it seemed mere uninformed babble to me. The kind of flippant insubstantial discourse that women like.” He watched her face and noted the clear flash of chagrin that crossed her eyes. His point, he decided. That made them even.

  “There was an article in there about the new licensing laws,” Constance said with a casual smile. “You consider that to be the subject of insubstantial discourse, Mr. Ensor? I would have thought a Member of Parliament would have an opinion of his own and be interested in the opinions of others.”

  “Informed opinions, Miss Duncan, yes.” He was enjoying himself now and sensed that Constance was too. Her eyes were flashing and dancing like fireflies.

  “And women's opinions are not informed?”

  “I didn't say that, Miss Duncan. There are many areas where women's opinions are both informed and vitally important.”

  “Those involved with hearth and home, kitchen and nursery. Yes, you made that clear the other evening.”

  “And it offended you?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Indeed, it was never my intention. I have only respect and admiration for your sex.”

  “And my sex is suitably complimented, Mr. Ensor. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Bainbridge and her daughters, Lady Martha and Lady Mary.” She turned and the battle was over, for the moment. He was not entirely sure which of them had won that round.

  Jenkins announced a trio of guests and the buzz of conversation filled the drawing room. Constance and her sisters were kept too busy taking care of their visitors to linger in any particular conversation, but Constance was aware of Max Ensor's hooded gaze following her as she moved around the room. He looked bored, she thought. He was standing behind his sister's chair, having abandoned both teacup and sandwich, taking no notice of the conversation around him. In fact he seemed oblivious of everyone but Constance.

  Constance cut a slice of Victoria sponge and carried it over to him. “Mr. Ensor, our cook is renowned for the lightness of her sponge cakes.” She handed him the plate before he could refuse. “Is there anyone I can introduce you to?”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I came here to talk to you, Miss Duncan. No one else interests me.”

  The sheer effrontery of this took her breath away. “You're saying you find no one in this room worthy of your attention?”

  “That was not what I said, Miss Duncan.” He looked at her, both challenge and question in his steady gaze. Constance felt a warmth creep over her cheeks and with an effort dragged her eyes from his. She searched for a swift comeback and for once was at a loss. A satisfied smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. He knew he had nonplussed her.

  Max broke off a small piece of cake with his fingers. Constance couldn't help but notice that he had unusually long and slender hands for a man. She said coldly, “A person with such restricted interests can hardly expect to be considered interesting to others.” She felt the snub barely began to express her true feelings but for once she was at a loss in the face of this supremely indifferent arrogance.

  He pursed his lips on a soundless whistle. “Touché, Miss Duncan.” His smile broadened. “I'm sure every one of your guests is most worthy,” he said. “I daresay my lack of interest reflects poorly upon my own social skills.” He gave an offhand shrug.

  “I wo
uld have to agree with you,” she retorted.

  “I tell you, my dear Lady Bainbridge, I am seriously considering giving the woman her notice.” Letitia's voice rose suddenly above the generalized buzz.

  “I most strongly advise you to do so, Lady Graham. Waste not a moment.” Lady Bainbridge snapped her fan against her hand. “One cannot entrust one's precious children to such women. They will corrupt those young and unformed minds. I wouldn't permit Martha or Mary to listen to such sacrilege.”

  “What sacrilege is this, Letitia?” Constance inquired, grateful for the opportunity to withdraw from battle and regroup.

  “Oh, my dear, you won't believe it. But I was going through Miss Westcott's bedroom this morning—Miss Westcott is Pammy's governess, you know. One must keep an eye on things. I consider it my maternal duty to inspect her room periodically.” Letitia nodded her head virtuously. “But what should I find?” She paused for dramatic effect and now had the attention of all within earshot.

  “I can't guess,” Prudence said.

  “One of those pamphlets from that organization, the Women's Union, or something.”

  “The Women's Social and Political Union,” Constance said without expression.

  “Whatever it's called. She'd hidden it away in a drawer. Of course she knows perfectly well that I won't have such scandalous nonsense in my house. I mean, what is the world coming to when you can't trust your own daughter's governess.”

  “What indeed?” Constance murmured. “Your vigilance does you credit, Letitia. I'm sure that the right to privacy is well sacrificed on its altar.” She glanced at Max Ensor, and the light in her eye would have given a sensible man pause. “Are you of your sister's opinion, Mr. Ensor?”

  It hadn't taken her long to renew the attack, he thought. But since he was extremely interested in what she might be persuaded or provoked to reveal about her own views of the WSPU he chose to disregard the warning flash in her eyes. “I haven't given it much thought,” he said, then added deliberately, “There's some logic, of course, in saying that women who pay taxes should have a vote.” He thought he detected a flicker of surprise cross her countenance. Watching her carefully, he continued with a dismissive gesture, “But it's such a small share of the female population that it hardly matters.”