Page 18 of The Dangerous Lord

Felicity gritted her teeth. “I’m not paying the vails.” When Mrs. Box’s face mirrored both horror and disapproval, Felicity added, “I’ll never return there, so what do I care if the servants think ill of me when I leave without giving them a farthing?”

The woman gave an exasperated sigh. “Child, you can’t go on this way. If you’d just set your cap for some young chap at the Worthin’s⁠—”

“‘Find a nice gentleman to marry’—that’s your only solution. I’ve tried, you know. But no acceptable man marries a penniless woman with four brothers to raise, and the unacceptable ones are ... well ... unacceptable.”

“You mean, unacceptable by your grand standards,” Mrs. Box said with a sniff.

“And whose standards should I use? I’d be the one living with the wretch and sharing his bed—not you or the boys.” If she could find someone to love, perhaps ... But no, men didn’t marry women like her for love. They married blazing beauties or delicate flowers or fine-boned china dolls. Not sharp-tongued spinsters.

Not that she wanted to marry. No, indeed. “There are only so many things I’ll sacrifice for my family, and my happiness isn’t one. As long as Mr. Pilkington pays me regularly and doesn’t quibble about what I write, I shall continue to produce my column and earn what money I can.”

“A pittance. It barely staves off your father’s creditors. They’re startin’ to doubt me when I lie about your father leavin’ you an inheritance. How long can I keep them believin’ that your inheritance is slow in comin’ to you legal-like?”

Mrs. Box had come up with the useful lie about the “inheritance” after they’d first discovered that she and the boys actually had an inheritance of 100 pounds per annum, an old carriage, and a mountain of debt. Of course, James had inherited the house, which was entailed upon his heir, if he ever had one, and the house was mortgaged to the hilt. So far Mrs. Box’s lie had kept their creditors at bay, but how much longer could that work? Yet if her choice were to marry for money ...

“Once those nasty wretches get wind of how lackin’ in funds you really be,” Mrs. Box went on, “you know they’ll swarm this place like flies, forcin’ you into bankruptcy. Your brother will lose the house that your poor father designed himself.”

Tired of having the same argument with her most trusted servant and companion, Felicity slammed the trunk shut. “If that happens, the boys and I shall join the circus.”

“Be serious, luv. You must start plannin’ for the future.”

What future? She had none. They both knew it, though she wasn’t ready to face it yet. “I tell you what,” she said lightly. “Rumor has it that Lord Worthing used to be a pirate. While I’m at his estate, I’ll ask him to put in a good word for us with his fellow miscreants. The boys would make good pirates, don’t you think? Swaggering about with sabers in their belts and climbing the rigging ...”

“Lord have mercy, the Navy would surely stand up and take notice of that.” Mrs. Box crossed her arms over her ample chest. “What you ought to ask Lord Worthin’ is if one of his friends needs a wife.”

“You mean his pirate friends?” When Mrs. Box glowered at her, Felicity added impishly, “I shouldn’t mind marrying a pirate, you know. As long as he bathed regularly and kept his wooden leg well-polished. Or perhaps I could find one with an eye patch⁠—”

“Enough of your nonsense,” Mrs. Box grumbled. “All I’m sayin’ is, if Lord Worthin’ and his wife like you well enough to invite you to their estate⁠—”

“They only invited me because Papa designed their house, and they want me to see it now that it’s finished.” The invitation had taken her by surprise, for she barely knew Lady Worthing and knew nothing of the woman’s husband except rumor.

“I still say you ought to make the most of it.”

“Oh, I will, don’t worry, especially at tonight’s ball. I’m sure to hear enough gossip for a scandal bouquet. Only wait until I write my next column⁠—”

“You and your scandal-broths and gossip. As if that’ll take care of you in your old age.” Mrs. Box clucked noisily, then picked up the painting and went to the door. “Very well. Don’t heed the one who’s looked after you since you were born. But don’t come cryin’ to me when the money’s gone.” With a sniff, she swung the door open. “I’ll have Joseph fetch the trunk. The coach—the hired coach—is waitin’ for you in front.”

The housekeeper waltzed out with her nose in the air, mumbling, “Lord preserve me, I never thought to see the day when the Taylors couldn’t even keep a carriage.”

Felicity made a face at the doorway. Mrs. Box certainly knew how to rub it in. Well, at least the dear woman had stayed on, despite her dwindling salary. Only four servants remained—Mrs. Box, Joseph, one housemaid, and Cook. All of Papa’s beloved paintings had been sold, as well as his architecture books and drafting instruments. Even Mama’s jewels were gone, except for the paste ones Felicity used for social occasions.

And still they lacked money. The boys ate as heartily as laborers, and she had to keep up appearances. She’d made every sacrifice she could think of. They dipped their own tallow candles and made their own soap, ate chicken instead of beef, burned fires only when necessary, and rationed the tea.

They had no relatives to help them, and she couldn’t take a position as a governess with the boys to raise. She’d considered teaching, but it paid more abysmally than writing. Besides, most schools that would hire her would require her to live on the grounds and then what would she do with the boys?

So she spent her days writing columns, prowling the rooms for more items to sell, and praying she could keep the creditors from devouring them until the boys were old enough to help support the family. Mr. Pilkington sometimes hinted he’d publish a book of hers if she could find a subject controversial enough for her to sharpen her tongue against, but so far he’d rejected all her suggestions for such a work.

Joseph came for the trunk, and she trailed down the stairs after him. The last time she’d left for a visit of this sort, she’d gone with Papa. He’d been invited to the Duke of Dorchester’s to give an opinion on restoring the west wing of the ducal mansion. She’d gone along to take notes, as she’d done since she was eleven.

During the visit to the duke’s estate, however, she’d discovered a certain aptitude for speaking her mind in such a way that people listened. Sometimes they berated her for her colorful opinions, but they did listen and even found her witty. It had been an amusement then, no more. Now it was the only thing garnering her an income. Pray God she never lost her knack for it.

She repeated that prayer an hour later after a thousand admonishments to Mrs. Box about the boys and after running the gauntlet of their tearful good-byes and sloppy kisses.

She repeated it again three hours later, as the carriage crunched up the snowy drive of the Worthing estate. She wished she knew what to expect of this visit. Lady Worthing seemed nice, but who could tell with these countesses? They often made her feel like a pigeon among peacocks, even when she reminded herself she was smarter and wittier than any of them.

It wasn’t her hostess who concerned her most, however. It was the host—the rumored pirate. She almost hoped the rumor weren’t true, for a former pirate was sure to be another of those men with groping hands, like Papa’s patrons. But before Papa’s death, he’d said that the Worthings spent most of their time on an island or at sea, which one would expect of a pirate. Papa had considered their long absences a blessing, since it meant they didn’t trouble him during his work. Indeed, they’d been away when he’d taken his fatal dunking in the Thames.

Suddenly, the coach topped a rise and the house leapt into view, banishing all thoughts of her host and hostess. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, a lump catching in her throat. No wonder the Worthings had been so pleased with it. It was Papa’s best, for certain. He’d always excelled with the Gothic style—the curving lines of the ogee arch, the battlemented parapets, the pointed sashes made to fit the pointed windows. The style’s imposing, irregular elements reflected her imposing and entirely irregular father.